


It Must Be Now

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breakup, Divorce, F/M, Grief, M/M, Makeup, Reunion, Slash, major character illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5833030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this alternate universe, the story opens as Peter and Elizabeth's marriage ends.  Peter tries to move into a new life, but finds himself haunted by his past – a relationship with Neal Caffrey when they were both students at Harvard – and a future that might come to an end far too soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round Six of the White Collar Big Bang.
> 
> Many thanks to my alpha readers, Theatregirl7299 and Miri_thompson for their endless encouragement, and to my beta readers, Pooh_Collector and Sinfulslasher, who did an incredible job wrangling this monster into something readable.
> 
> Even more thanks to the wonderful and talented TreonB, who created the beautiful and evocative video.
> 
> Title from the Annie Lennox Song "Oh God (Prayer)", which TreonB used in the vid.

  


 

"Just put your John Hancock on each page, and then we're done."

Peter looked at the package of legal papers waiting for his signature. There were about a half-dozen of those "Sign Here" flags sticking out from the side. With a deep sigh, he picked up the pen his attorney provided and scrawled his signature where indicated, then pushed the package back across the table.

"Congratulations, Peter. You're a free man."

Peter tried to summon a smile, but it was impossible. He didn't want to be a free man. He wanted to be a husband. He wanted to be Elizabeth's husband, just as he'd been for the last decade and a half. But she didn't want to be his wife anymore, she didn't want his adoration and affection and the bounty of material wealth he could provide. She wanted her independence, she wanted to stand on her own two feet and do what she wanted, whenever she wanted, with whoever she wanted. She wanted a life without him.

Elizabeth's reasons for their separation and divorce were still baffling to Peter. He'd never felt as if he'd stood in her way or held her back. When she wanted to start her own business, Peter had been happy to provide capital. When she needed clients; Peter hadn't hesitated to refer his colleagues to her. But apparently that wasn't enough – or in El's words, it was too much. She had felt stifled and constrained by his constant need to please her. 

First she told him she wanted to be something more than the great Peter Burke's wife. 

Then she said she couldn't stand his need to be the perfect husband.

So, after fifteen years of trying to be just that, Peter couldn't deny his wife anything, and when she asked him for a divorce, in those loving and reasonable tones that he knew so well, he couldn't even deny her that.

"Are you okay?" His lawyer, David Siegel, an old friend from his Harvard days, gave him a worried look.

Peter shrugged. "Yeah. I guess so."

"You know, this might have been the easiest divorce I've handled in ten years. You got away easy. Your ex wanted nothing from what you earned during your marriage, so your net worth's still intact. You aren't paying alimony, you aren't paying spousal support. If you hadn't insisted, you wouldn't have even had to clear the mortgage on the marital home. Why are you so blue?"

_Because I don't want to be divorced, you idiot._ "Don't know." Peter realized he was still fiddling with the pen and tossed it on the table. Feeling more like eighty than fifty, he pushed himself to his feet.

David made some soothing noises. "Look, it's a big change, I get that."

"You would. You've been married and divorced four times." Peter smiled to take the sting out of his words.

"You wound me – it was only three." David held his hand to his chest in an overly dramatic fashion. "But seriously, Peter, you have a chance that most men would give their eyeteeth for. You're healthy, wealthy, and unburdened by a spouse. You're built like a god and could probably pose for the cover of _Men's Health_ without the need for Photoshop. What are you complaining about?"

"Elizabeth meant everything to me. I never wanted anything more than to be her husband."

"Oh?" David leaned back against the credenza, a smirk on his lips. "I seem to remember you as having very ecumenical tastes. You worked your way through every leggy blue-eyed brunette in Cambridge, and then went home and fucked that rather tasty housemate of ours, also a blue-eyed brunet. He was gorgeous enough to make me think I'd like to be queer, instead of just watching _you_ be queer."

Peter felt a hot flush rise in his cheeks. "Those days are long past."

"Really?" David still wore that smirk as skepticism dripped from the syllables he uttered. "I thought leopards couldn't change their spots."

"I'm not a leopard. I was simply curious."

"Oh, come on. You told me that when I walked in on you getting a blow job in our freshman year. While there's nothing wrong with being curious, seven years is a long time to satisfy your curiosity. For three years, I watched you screw a lot of guys in our dorm room. And what about our housemate? For three years, he was the only one you wouldn't let me watch you fuck. I always thought that meant he was important to you."

"It was just a fling, that's it." Even after twenty-five years, the denial was still a bitter taste in his mouth. "And it just took a while to satisfy my curiosity."

"And now you have a chance to satisfy it all over again. Being gay is all the rage these days."

Peter shook his head, dismissing his lawyer's words. He wasn't gay. He hadn't been gay. He'd been _bisexual_ , but that was no longer an issue. "Look, send me a copy of the papers and your final bill. I think we're done."

David tipped his head in a gesture of submission. "Will do, and here's some advice I'm not going to charge you for – get out there, have fun, enjoy yourself." He picked up the papers. "As of today, you and Elizabeth are history. You're better off."

Peter bit back the retort, _No, I'm not_ , and left. There was no point in saying another word.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Six Months Later**

Elizabeth scanned the small restaurant, looking for her client and she was pretty certain that the man sitting at a table near the window was him. She'd done her research after receiving his call, and although he lacked a footprint on any of the major social media sites and was generally publicity-shy, she was able to locate a relatively recent photograph taken at a charity event last spring. In a custom-made tuxedo, he'd taken her breath away, and if the man sitting by the window _was_ her client, the picture hadn’t done him justice. 

The maître'd approached. "Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Neal Caffrey."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Caffrey is expecting you. Please follow me."

As she hoped, the man at the table _was_ Neal Caffrey, and when he stood and smiled, the warmth in his eyes dispelled much of the awe his physical perfection generated. She knew he was a year shy of fifty, and if it wasn't for the magnificent silver wings at his temples and the threads of gray in his late afternoon scruff, she'd have said that Neal Caffrey wasn't a day over thirty-five.

"Elizabeth Burke?"

She smiled and corrected him, "Actually, it's Elizabeth Mitchell – at least it has been for the last six months – since my divorce was final. I keep meaning to get our website updated, but there's always something else that takes priority, especially since I'm not changing the name of the business." She flushed, not really intending on spilling her personal information to a client before she even sat down.

Neal nodded. "I know how those things are. Handle the big things and the small stuff takes care of itself."

"One hopes."

Neal gestured to the table. "Shall we sit?"

El did just that and Neal followed suit. He relaxed against the seat, legs crossed. Wearing what El suspected was Armani Black Label; he was the epitome of urbane elegance.

A waiter came by for the drink order and she figured, for the moment, it would be best to stick with club soda. Neal, however, ordered a vodka martini, extra olives.

After the waiter departed, El decided to get down to business before she lost her nerve and started flailing like a schoolgirl. This was Neal Caffrey, a former professional poker player who had become a wunderkind of the investment world. Those who knew about such things called him the "Shadow Prince of Private Equity," because even a whisper of his intentions could make or break companies. And for some reason, he wanted her – or at least he wanted the services of Burke Premier Events. Striving to maintain some semblance of dignity, Elizabeth asked, "What can BPE do for you?"

Neal's smile broadened, and something else hit her – it wasn't just a sexual appreciation for the man's physical gifts, but a different sort of warmth. It was the need to be this man's friend, to get to know him better. The more logical part of her brain said that this was certainly not an uncommon reaction.

"I want to throw a birthday party for my partner, Mozzie. He's turning sixty in January."

"Your partner?" El felt an unreasonable stab of disappointment. It wasn't as if she'd have a chance with a man like this anyway. Neal Caffrey likely dated supermodels, not curvy, short, almost-middle-aged business women.

A different sort of smile twisted Neal's lips. "My _business_ partner. And my best friend. Besides, even if Moz liked men, he's not the type who mixes business with that sort of pleasure, and I value him too dearly to risk the inevitable mess that a breakup would leave behind. I've been through that before." Neal blinked. "Wow – I usually don't overshare like that."

"Well, considering I mentioned my divorce as we shook hands, I'd say we're even."

The waiter came back with her club soda and Neal's martini. 

There was a pause as they both took sips, and Elizabeth pushed things forward. "Can you tell me about your friend? Things I should know so we can figure out how to throw him a party he'll never want to forget."

Neal seemed to consider the request. "Well, Moz is unique. I don't think you'll ever meet anyone quite like him."

Elizabeth often thought that was true of most people, but she just asked, "Can you give me an example?"

"Well, he's something of a paranoid genius."

That didn't sound promising. "I'm hoping you mean more genius than paranoid. More Albert Einstein, less Ted Kazinsky?"

Neal chuckled and sipped his martini. "Yeah, that's a good way to put it, and a way that Moz would appreciate."

Elizabeth had to ask, "Is Moz his first or his last name?"

"It's a nickname – short for Mozart, a nickname from his childhood. Moz doesn't like to use his real name."

"Okay. And is Moz musically inclined – like Mozart?"

"Not at all. He can't hold a tune, but he does appreciate the classics."

El was beginning to feel like she was digging for gold with a thimble. Neal was doing a good job of providing the least amount of useful information possible. "Is he married?"

"Yes."

"Can I ask why his wife isn’t planning this party?"

"Their relationship is … unusual. But she'll be on the guest list. As will his two girlfriends."

That was not what she expected to hear. "Okaaaay." 

"I guess you're not a fan of polyamory."

"Poly-what?"

"Polyamory – or consensual non-monogamy. Moz has an open relationship with his wife and his two girlfriends. They all know about each other."

"Sort of share and share and share alike?"

"Pretty much."

El thought it seemed rather bizarre, but it wasn't up to her to pass judgment on anyone's lifestyle. "Sounds exhausting." 

"Moz has a strong constitution."

Anxious to change the subject, El asked, "So – other than the business and his bounty of female companionship, what else can you tell me about him?"

"He has a few hobbies. Enjoys good wine, preferably Italian reds, though he won't turn up his nose at something French – especially something that costs a few hundred bucks and someone else is paying for. He flies his own airplane, and keeps bees. He races pigeons and has a pet rat. He loves solving puzzles and is a chess Grand Master. He buys storage lockers for the hell of it and freaks out when he finds people's dirty old clothes and used furniture."

Elizabeth finally had to concede, "You're right. Your friend certainly is unique. Are you sure he's going to want a birthday party, though?"

"Yes, absolutely. Moz may be prickly and difficult and no one would ever call him a people-person, but he loves being fussed over and made to feel important."

"He likes to be the center of attention?"

"Yeah, but it has to be the right kind of attention."

Elizabeth nodded, she understood that. They talked dates and guest lists and venues and menus, and although Neal wanted to give her a blank check, she insisted on a budget. "I'm not comfortable without some sort of cost control."

Neal accepted her request. "I'm usually not so expansive – I remember my lean years too well. But it's for Moz and I guess I'm inclined to overspend to make sure it's perfect."

"Nothing is perfect – there will always be hiccups and mistakes and I guarantee that something very important will require last minute changes or accommodations. That's the nature of the business – you just have to plan for it."

"Thank you for telling me that. I was expecting to hear you say that everything will be perfect and the party will come off without a hitch."

"There's no point in that, other than to create unreasonable expectations. You're hiring me to deliver the best event possible; it's my job to make sure that happens. But promising perfection is unrealistic, no matter how much money you're paying." This wasn't a speech she normally gave to prospective clients, but for some reason, she thought that Neal would appreciate it.

"You've been doing this for a while?"

"About a decade or so. I was an art acquisitions consultant for a few major galleries in New York, but started branching out about ten years ago. I still do some work in that field, but mostly my focus is on the event business." El then asked, "How did you find Burke Premier? You didn't mention who referred you."

"I wasn't referred. To be honest, I liked the name, I liked your website. I checked you out. You had good reviews on Yelp and Angie's List."

El was stunned. "I don't think anyone's ever picked my company because of my website. And I don't remember the last time I got a new client that wasn't a referral. Event planning is a business that thrives on word of mouth. The website's there simply because one can't do business without one, and my assistant's oldest daughter is pretty good with coding and whatnot." 

Neal shrugged. "What can I say? I got a good feeling from the site and I'm glad I went with it. I like you."

"I'm glad you did, too."

The room began to darken and a server came by with a small lit candle, which he placed in the center of the table. It was mid-October and the days were already too short. El checked her watch, it was close to five.

Neal's next request was completely unexpected. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"

El looked up and blinked, not sure that she heard correctly. Did Neal Caffrey just ask her to dinner? The comfortable rapport she'd developed over the last hour or so evaporated. "I, um, I can't. I have another appointment." The words came out of her mouth before she could even think.

Neal accepted her excuse gracefully. "I understand. I just – well, sometimes – get bored with my own company. Moz is out of town and I'm at loose ends tonight."

"Maybe another time?"

"Absolutely. How about next week, when you have some ideas for this party?"

El couldn't believe she turned down what was possibly a date with Neal Caffrey. And considering that her appointment was her standing monthly dinner with her ex, she wanted to shoot herself for being so stupid. She could have rescheduled her dinner with Peter with a quick text. No explanation required. But she hadn't, and now she'd look foolish and desperate if she told Neal that she could change her plans. So El got up, and Neal followed suit. "It was nice meeting you."

"It was my pleasure."

"I'll call you next week. Monday or Tuesday, and we can discuss the options."

"Sounds perfect." Neal took her hand and for a moment, El thought he was going to kiss the back of it. A courtly gesture like that was usually a ridiculous affectation, but El thought it would suit him.

But he didn't, he just said, "I'm looking forward to seeing you again."

El nodded and hoped she didn't look like a perfect idiot. "I am, too." 

As she walked away, El told herself she was being ridiculous, since Neal Caffrey all but admitted he was gay.

But a woman could dream, couldn't she?

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal watched Elizabeth Burke's – no, Mitchell's – retreating figure. A lovely firm ass, strong back and shoulders, and despite the lack of height, killer legs in those four-inch heels. A sight worth savoring. And once upon a time, he might have done more than savor.

Neal had stopped kidding himself a long time ago. He liked women. He appreciated them – their beauty and their minds. But he wasn't attracted to them, not sexually. Not anymore.

In truth, he probably never had been, but there was a time when it was easier to pretend interest than to deny it, if just because it meant he could hold onto something else for a little longer.

But that was more than a lifetime ago.

Neal signaled the waiter for a refill, and from his seat by the window, watched the busy New York sidewalk filled with people going on with their lives. Going home to their families or getting ready to socialize with friends. There were times – like tonight – when he wished he was different. That he could walk into a bar and smile at someone and find an evening's companionship or maybe something a little bit more than that. This was New York City, he was fit, wealthy, and he wasn't stupid enough to pretend that he wasn't attractive. There should have been plenty of men for him.

But after twenty-five years, he still longed for what he never really had. 

Which was why he was dumb enough to pick an event planning company that shared a name with the man who walked away from him a quarter-century ago and never looked back. Or technically, the man who told him to get lost. It was a foolish choice – silly and juvenile – but one that seemed like it might very well work out. Elizabeth Mitchell was not just beautiful; she was smart, perceptive, and best of all, an emotional adult.

Unlike him. Despite his success, he felt like he had the impulse control of a three year old. And there were times that Moz wasn't much better than that. Between the two of them, it often seemed like they had the collective emotional intelligence of a very insecure thirteen-year-old girl.

At least he didn't delude himself, not anymore, that he was made for a family and PTA meetings and a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence. A string of mostly disastrous relationships since he left Harvard taught him plenty. He might be a romantic, he might long for permanence – the proverbial white picket fence – but he wasn't cut out to be anybody's one true love. 

For a while, he thought he could settle for good companionship, that he could find someone who was sexually and emotionally compatible. But that never seemed to work out. Just before Matthew – his last attempt at a meaningful relationship – stormed out of his apartment, he'd called him an emotionally-stunted, closed-off narcissist, and no matter how much money he had, he'd end up dying alone because no one wanted to share their life with a very pretty and very empty shell.

Of course, when Matthew had come crawling back a few weeks later, Neal took great pleasure in telling him that there was no point in resuming a relationship, since he didn't want to be with anyone who'd settle for an "emotionally-stunted, closed-off narcissist".

He never really missed Matthew. The sex was okay, the conversation less so. He could buy better and occasionally did, although not lately. It wasn't that he had any _functional_ difficulties; it was that he simply lacked the desire to pursue such interests. 

His libido seemed to be in terminal decline.

Except in the small, dark hours of the night, when he dreamed he was back in Cambridge, back in that little house a few blocks from the Charles River. Those nights, he'd wake up hard and aching and fucking his mattress as his dream-partner fucked him.

The waiter came back with Neal's fresh martini and a small plate of tapas, courtesy of the house. Neal thanked the man and pretended not to notice the flirtatious up-from-under look he gave him. The guy was cute in a hipsterish sort of way. The beard was neat, but Neal could see the edges of a tattoo peeking out from his collar. His ears were pierced and there was a tiny hole at the side of his nostril for another piercing.

None of which Neal found appealing.

So he smiled absently and turned back to his people-watching. The alcohol didn't chase away the memories of another man's smooth, well-muscled flesh. It didn't chase away memories of it glowing unmarked and almost perfect in the dim light of a small bedroom. It didn't chase away the memories of the taste of that skin and its one tiny flaw – a mole at the base of that man's throat. Neal wondered if anything could erase those memories.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It took Elizabeth about twenty-five minutes to get from the trendy Upper West Side bistro where she'd had her appointment with Neal Caffrey to the extremely traditional Italian restaurant where she was meeting Peter. For years, _Donatella's_ had been their go-to joint, a convenient spot to meet up in Manhattan before heading back to the house in Brooklyn. It remained convenient – about midway between her storefront in Chelsea and Peter's office in the McGraw-Hill Building on 56th and Sixth Avenue.

The place was shabby, but the food was better than decent. El was glad that they could still come here without feeling the pressure of memory. 

She paid the cabbie and rushed into the restaurant. She was about ten minutes late and while Peter would never, ever say anything, she knew that he was almost obsessively punctual and would be there, waiting.

And Peter was, sitting at the bar. El paused in the doorway and took in the sight of her ex. He was reading something on a tablet, and there were a pair of bifocals perched on the tip of his nose. She remembered when Peter had gotten the prescription and had absolutely refused to wear them – complaining that they gave him headaches. She had told him that she thought there was nothing sexier than a man in glasses. He hadn't said anything, but had taken to wearing them while reading in bed. She had enjoyed proving her point. Over and over again.

Regardless of the issues between them, their sex life had rarely been a problem. Even now, almost a year since she asked Peter for a divorce, and six months since it had been finalized, El still felt that rich, sharp tug of desire. She wondered if maybe, despite everything, this was something they could have. They were, after all, still friends, so why not make that friends with benefits?

Peter looked up from his tablet and spotted her. He smiled, took off his glasses and tucked the tablet into his briefcase. As El approached, she couldn't help but notice that her ex seemed tired. Thinner, too. As he stood up to greet her, she saw how his suit jacket seemed to sag on him. It had taken her some time to convince him that even his off-the-rack Brooks Brothers needed some alterations, but once he'd gotten with the program, Peter had all his suits tailored properly. He had always been a little proud of his physique, especially as he'd entered middle age, and liked to show if off. After he'd left the FBI and taken a job with a top-tier Wall Street firm, the off-the-rack Brooks Brothers had been exchanged for custom-tailored, close-fitting Brioni, Armani, and Tom Ford, like the one he was wearing now.

Something wasn't quite right.

But Peter didn't seem to notice her concern as he leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You look wonderful, El."

She brushed off the compliment and apologized for her tardiness. "There was a stalled truck on Seventh and the traffic was backed up."

"Don't worry about it."

"I just hate keeping you waiting."

"It's okay, just ten minutes – no big deal."

They settled into the corner booth – _their_ spot for almost a dozen years – and a waiter brought their usual drink order: a glass of Pinot for her and a bottle of Peroni for Peter, and asked if they were having their usual, which they were. El liked how comfortable they were with each other. She never regretted their separation and divorce, maybe because they had been able to remain such good friends.

They relaxed with their drinks and Peter asked her about her day.

"I have a new client."

"Oh?"

El told Peter about the job, but didn't mention Neal's name or any of the particulars. One of the few things he had required before their meeting was that she sign a non-disclosure agreement, and she hadn't hesitated. Such things were fairly common when dealing with extremely wealthy clients. She could talk about the job, but in broad strokes. Peter knew her well enough not to ask for details about the people paying the bills, and they could still brainstorm some of the plans.

"Where are you thinking of having this party?"

"Not sure. The birthday boy is a bit of an eccentric, so the Top of the Rock or the Four Seasons might be a bit ordinary."

"Does it have to be in Manhattan or New York City?"

"Hmm, don't know. That's a good point." El made a mental note to check with Neal on that. 

The waiter came with a plate of cold antipasti, all terribly unhealthy but delicious. El was hungry and didn't stand on ceremony, helping herself to some prosciutto and melon. Two bites in, she noticed that Peter hadn't taken anything. Nor had he had more than a single sip of his beer. They might be divorced, but she could still worry about him. "Is everything all right?"

Peter gave her a quizzical look. "Sure, why do you ask?"

"You haven't taken anything." El waved at the platter. "And usually, you're on your second beer by now."

"Ah. Everything's fine. Had a late lunch with a client. Saving my appetite for the main course."

The excuse was offered without hesitation, but El's bullshit meter was hitting the red zone. She didn't press, though. "Okay." Suddenly, her own appetite deserted her and the piece of mozzarella she'd just bitten into tasted like chalk.

Peter then told her a story about a junior associate's epic loss of composure during an audit call that morning. El found the story more pathetic than amusing, but laughed at the appropriate places. Peter, however, noticed that she was faking it.

"I guess that wasn't very funny."

She shrugged. "Not really. You were never the kind of person who took pleasure from someone else's misfortune. Unless they deserved it. Did this kid?"

"No. He'd been working close to sixty hours without a break." Peter grimaced. "You're right; I never used to be that guy."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"I'll talk to his boss, try and smooth things over. Worse comes to worse, I'll take him for my team. He's smart – "

El finished the sentence, "And you like smart."

Peter raised his bottle to her and gave her a wry smile. "You know me very well."

The waiter returned with their entrees, and El waited to see if Peter was going to start eating. To her relief, he did. But not with any particular gusto, which was surprising, since the Chicken Valdostana was his favorite dish. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. 

Peter noticed her preoccupation. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring at me."

"Sorry, just lost in thought." El attacked her own meal with pretended delight.

Peter waited a few moments before asking, "Good thoughts, I hope."

"Huh?"

"You said you were lost in thought. Hope they were good thoughts."

"Yeah, I guess they were."

"Are you seeing someone?"

Elizabeth wasn't surprised by Peter's question, but the almost diffident tone sort of broke her heart. She kept reminding herself, _no regrets, you have no regrets,_ and answered, "Been on a few casual dates, but nothing serious. What about you? Are you seeing anyone?"

"Me?" Peter sounded incredulous.

"Yeah, you. Any nice girls in your life?" She ignored the pained look on his face and, feeling a little outrageous, asked, "Any nice boys?"

"El!"

She didn't buy Peter's outrage. "Oh, come on, Peter. I know you, remember?" A few months after they'd started dating, when things started to turn serious, Peter told her about his past, which included more women than he could count and quite a few men, too. 

"That was a long time ago, I was curious, that's all."

"Really? That's all it was? From what you told me, you spread yourself pretty thin trying to satisfy your curiosity."

"Look, I'm not interested in anyone. Not men, not women."

"Why not?" 

"Because. I'm just not." 

"Peter – come on. Why aren't you out there? Even if you aren't looking for romance, what about getting some action? It's not like you don't like sex." She ignored the storm clouds building in Peter's expression and continued. "I remember your stories – you were quite the player in college. Boys, girls, it didn't matter as long as they were willing and not looking for commitment. I loved that about you, you know that." She used to tease him like this all the time. Peter's past was his past – she'd never felt threatened by it. "Time to get back in the saddle, so to speak."

"El, drop it. Okay?" Peter's tone was sharp and she realized that maybe she was behaving like a bitch, pushing him into something he clearly wasn't ready for. She knew how much the divorce hurt him.

"Sorry – I didn't mean to cross the line."

Whatever fire had been in Peter's voice had died out and he shook his head. "It's okay."

The waiter stopped by, noticing that neither of them had eaten much, and Peter assured the man that everything was fine. When the waiter left, El finally gave voice to her concerns. "You don't look good, hon." She silently chided herself; using their old, affectionate shorthand was probably not a good idea anymore.

"I'm fine, El." 

"Forgive me if I don't believe you. You look awful."

"Thanks for nothing."

"Seriously, Peter. You've lost weight, your complexion's terrible. You look like you haven't seen the sun in weeks, you have no appetite. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, El. Nothing's wrong at all."

She didn't call him a liar, although she was tempted. Instead, she put her hand over his, and gently said, "We may not be married anymore, but I still care about you. We're still friends. I'm here for you. You can tell me anything."

Peter deliberately removed his hand from under hers and looked at her. In all their years together – and the months they'd been apart – El had never seen him look at her this coldly. Not even when she'd asked him for a divorce. 

"No, Elizabeth, we're not. We were married, and I thought we had a good marriage. You disagreed and wanted a divorce. So we're no longer married. We're simply _ex_ -husband and _ex_ -wife. 'Ex' means 'former'. We are _not_ friends and I am tired of pretending that we are, or that we should be. Goodbye." 

Peter picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth before taking out his wallet. He dropped enough money on the table to cover the bill and a generous tip before getting up. He grabbed his briefcase and without another word, walked out of the restaurant and out of her life.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter hadn't planned on making the final break with Elizabeth tonight, even though he knew he was going to have to do so soon. He just couldn't keep pretending that everything was all right, that he enjoyed seeing his ex-wife glowing with happiness while his own world was shrouded in misery.

He'd planned on easing away for a few weeks now. He should have cancelled a few of their monthly dinners, taking longer and longer to return her calls, making this final separation as natural and painless as possible. If he'd gone through with his initial plan, he wouldn't have had to be so brutal to Elizabeth. Despite the divorce, she didn't deserve that. But El was too smart, too perceptive. She always was, and that had been such a big part of the attraction. He couldn't lie to her, he couldn't fool her, and now, the only way he could make the break was by making her hate him. When she called him "hon" and said that he could tell her anything because they were friends, the plan clicked into place. He could cut it off now, make the break. He had to get out of there, no matter how much it hurt both of them.

It was late enough that he was easily able to get a cab back to his apartment on Columbus Avenue. It wasn't all that far, about twenty blocks, but he was just too tired and worn out to hoof it. The doorman greeted him and by the time he made it through the lobby, the private elevator car was waiting to whisk him up to his apartment on the twenty-first floor. Or rather, simply to the twenty-first floor, because his apartment took up the entire space.

He'd bought the property as an investment while the building was under construction, never expecting that he'd need to live here. But when Elizabeth asked for a divorce, there was no way he could stay in the house in Brooklyn. It was a symbol of a life he no longer had, maybe a life that never was anything more than an illusion. During the first years of their marriage, they'd scrimped and saved and managed to get a down payment together for a house in the not-yet-trendy Fort Greene neighborhood in Brooklyn. Today, the house was worth stupid money and paying off the mortgage as part of the divorce settlement was equivalent to a mere rounding error in his net worth.

But this glossy box wasn't his home. It was a place where he kept his suits, where he slept, where he existed in the time when he wasn't working. Not that work was particularly fulfilling. He'd never really relished his time as an FBI agent, at least not after 9/11 when the Bureau reorganized to focus on counterterrorism. He'd been pulled off of the white collar task force he'd been so proud to be a part of and spend the next five years chasing suspected terrorists through their bank accounts. He'd been good at it, too – but the work was soul-draining. Shortly after his fifteenth year with the FBI, he made the leap, taking a position with a Wall Street firm that valued his experience and his connections more than his facility with numbers. Which turned out to be just as soul-draining, but far more lucrative.

Not that wealth could truly buy happiness; it only made being unhappy a lot easier.

The elevator doors opened into a glossy foyer area with a marble floor and black leather and mirrored glass paneled walls – certainly not to his taste at all. After construction had finished, the place had been decorated by some famous designer – Peter couldn't remember who. He'd given a project manager a generous budget and told her she could have ten percent of whatever was left, once the apartment was sold. Even though she overran the budget, he ended up giving her a ten percent bonus anyway. It was finished just as he needed to move in.

If things were different, he'd sell it and find something smaller, something a little more practical. Something a little less glossy and magazine-layout like. But frankly, he didn't have the energy. At least not right now. Maybe someday.

Weary beyond belief, Peter dropped his briefcase on the couch and made his way into his bedroom. The view was decent, facing east, and he could see the towers of the truly grand buildings on Central Park West. Nowadays, he liked being so high up – there was a sense of isolation from being up so high, a separation from the world and its petty cares. In the winter, when the snow came, it seemed as if there was no one else in the world.

That he was alone in the universe.

It took a few minutes to change out of his suit. Elizabeth was right – he had lost weight. The jacket hung on him and the pants slipped over his hips as soon as he undid his belt. But there was no point in getting them tailored. If he was lucky, they'd fit him again in a year or so. If he wasn't, well then someone would take them to a thrift store.

Peter put on an old pair of sweatpants and cursed when the drawstring broke and they fell to the floor because he had no meat on his ass and hips to hold them up. He rummaged around the back of his closet and found another pair – not as old, not as comfortable, but they had an elastic waistband and stayed mostly where they were supposed to. He pulled on an old Harvard sweatshirt and something smacked him in the face before falling to the rug.

Panting from the simple effort of changing his clothes, Peter got woozy when he bent down to pick up the offending object. It took a second to recover from the dizzy spell, but he retrieved it. It was his watch; the leather strap had broken.

Peter looked at it, and felt a surge of almost angry tears. Elizabeth had given this to him on their tenth anniversary – a solid gold Movado. Peter had worn it with pride, although it was almost useless as a timekeeper. Time to put it away. Time to move on. 

There was a small leather valet case on his bureau. The top of the box contained the wedding ring he could no longer wear, a few pairs of cufflinks, a couple of tie bars – a ridiculous affectation, and the pinkie ring he'd had made from his ten-year FBI anniversary pin. Underneath that tray was a space for watches. And other things.

Peter took a deep breath – knowing what he'd find there and not wanting to see it. It should be easy just to lift up the tray and drop the watch in the space and not see the white square he'd put there so long ago. Not see the faded script – _P &N '88 Cmbdg_. It should be easy to be the coward he'd always been and close his eyes to the past. He'd never had a problem doing that before, but tonight, he heard the echo of his words to Elizabeth:

_"We are not friends…"_

Words that were so similar to the ones he'd spoken to someone else, more than half a lifetime ago. Words of deliberate cruelty. Words he'd always wanted to take back but never did.

Peter lifted the tray and before he put away Elizabeth's broken gift, he pulled out that white square and turned it over. His heart beat a little faster at what he saw – a faded color photograph of two young men in matching tuxedos, arms slung over each other's shoulders. 

A portrait of two friends.

Watch forgotten, he wandered out of the bedroom and dropped onto the vast leather couch. The room wasn't completely dark. This was Manhattan and the lights from the neighboring buildings provided enough of a glow for him to see.

But Peter didn't need the light. Memory provided all the illumination he needed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Cambridge, Massachusetts. August, 1987**

"Still can't believe that Fowler bailed on us." Peter picked up the lease for the house they were renting and then tossed it back on the table. "What the hell are we going to do? It's too late to get on-campus housing for the semester, and it's less than a week until we move in."

"Don't worry. Something will turn up." David Siegel was far too relaxed about everything, which irritated the hell out of Peter. "Besides, I've got enough money to cover Fowler's part of the first and last month's rent."

"At least the shithead didn't insist on us returning his share of the deposit."

"As if we would. Who'd a thunk that ass would get into LSE?"

Peter rolled his eyes at David's comment. Garrett Fowler might be a shit for bailing out on their housing agreement so close to move in, and he certainly was not one of the most impressive specimens on campus, but he was still pretty damn smart. Smart enough to carry a perfect GPA at Harvard and get into the London School of Economics for his senior year.

"We still need to find a third housemate."

"You really think that's going to be difficult?"

"I don't want just anyone moving in."

David sniffed. "You're too particular."

"Unlike you, I don't have a family legacy to fall back on. And my shot at the Business School is still dependent on keeping up my GPA. Don't want someone who's just looking to party."

"I know your rules. No smokers, no burners, no one who's looking to have the least bit of fun."

Peter glared at David. "If I'm such a bore, why are you taking a house with me?"

"Because you're a fucking chick and dick magnet, that's why. And you put up with my perversities."

"Will you lower your voice?" Peter looked around the coffee shop.

"Why – it's no big deal. So you swing both ways. Like I've always said, that doubles your chance of scoring. And that doubles my chances of some viewing pleasure."

Peter sighed at the familiar refrain. He knew he was fortunate in his friendship with David. They'd been an unlikely pairing since freshman year put them together as roommates. David was Jewish and the privileged only son of a Chicago industrialist, while Peter was a lapsed Catholic with a bum arm that killed his professional baseball career just as it started and the first in his family to attend college. David liked to party, while Peter was keen on keeping his nose to the grindstone. 

Except on Saturday nights, when they'd head into Boston and hit the college-friendly bars. At first David had tried to make Peter his wingman, and had been generous to share the girls he'd attracted. But it soon became clear that Peter didn't need David's help or his leftovers. Girls seemed to find him irresistible. There was rarely a Sunday morning that he didn't show up still dressed in Saturday night's clothes and reeking of sex and cheap perfume.

Except for the time that he thought David was out of town for some family thing and was getting paid for his calculus tutoring with a blowjob from some cute surfer dude who needed help with his Leibniz notation.

David had gotten an eyeful, but he hadn't blinked. He'd just dropped his bags, leaned against the doorframe and watched. When the other guy left, David said that his flight had been cancelled and suggested that the next time, Peter tie a sock on the doorknob – the tried and true method of letting his roommate know not to enter.

The conversation they'd had after Peter zipped up his pants was bizarre. Before David could say anything, he had offered, "I'll move out if you want."

"Why?"

"Because – you know."

"Because you're gay? But you're not really gay, because you get more pussy than the local cat sanctuary. You're bi, right?"

Peter had shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. Curious, mostly."

David smirked at him. "Looked like a hell of a lot more than just curiosity."

Peter had realized something. "You like to watch?"

"Yeah. No interest in getting dick myself, but yeah, watching's cool."

"I'm not interested in giving you a show."

"Too bad. If you change your mind, let me know."

"You're a bit of a freak, you know that?"

"Yup, that I am." David laughed. "Since I was thirteen, when I caught my oldest sister doing it doggy style with the gardener while the chauffeur was giving it to him up the ass. What a bar mitzvah present that was!"

Occasionally, if just to reward his roommate's open mind, he let him watch him fuck guys, as long as the guys he was with didn't object. It was kind of creepy screwing with David in the room, not participating but just rubbing his dick through his pants. But David enjoyed it and never passed judgment. Peter figured he couldn't ask for more than that. And after three years, he got used to it.

David brought him back to the present. "Why don't you post something in the math department? You're pretty tight with the profs, right? And didn't you bounce a couple of the secretaries on your ahem – pogo stick – at a party last semester?"

Peter glared at David. "Seriously, someone needs to take a bar of soap to your mouth."

David was unfazed. "And here I was, trying for a little discretion." David picked up the lease agreement and stuffed it in his back pocket. "Take my advice – use your legendary wit and charm and get permission to post a flyer. There's always some grad student transferring in that'll need housing." He dropped a few bucks on the table to pay for their coffees. "I'm off – places to go, people to see."

Peter nodded, already thinking about how to ask Shelley – the department secretary – if he could put up a flyer for a few weeks. David wasn't mistaken; he'd done both Shelley and her assistant, Robyn, in the supply closet during the end-of-semester gathering last May. He'd also spent the last three months trying not to make eye contact with either lady.

But it turned out that asking Shelley for permission was unnecessary. The university grapevine was highly efficient and the department head buttonholed him as soon as he walked in the office. It seemed that some hot-shot math genius was transferring in from Princeton and would need housing for at least the fall semester. The sudden vacancy in Peter's housing situation was perfect.

Peter made arrangements for an interview with the guy, not wanting to let the professor think he was a pushover, but in his head, it was a done deal. As long as he didn't smoke or have terrible personal hygiene, Peter would take him on as a housemate. How noisy could a guy majoring in math be?

Two days later, he and David were at their usual coffee shop near the campus – the one on Kennedy, right across from the T stop – and waiting for the potential housemate to show up. Peter had a name – Neal G. Caffrey – and a copy of the guy's transcript from Princeton, which he really didn't think he should have been given. What was more interesting than the grades was the guy's age – the same as Peter's, but he wasn't a senior. He'd already gotten his Bachelor's and his Master's, and was working on a PhD in statistics and market theory, which meant he really was something of a genius.

It was about ten minutes after the time for the interview and Peter was getting annoyed. 

"Relax, man." David's attempts to calm him down only succeeded in making him more agitated.

"If he can't show up for a simple interview on time, how can we expect him to pay the rent when it's due?"

"Jeez – what crawled up your butt and died? It's summertime, the guy probably just arrived in Boston and got lost. Or maybe there was a breakdown on the T. Or he got tied up in a meeting. You're being an ass."

Peter knew that David was right. He had a thing about punctuality and sometimes he went a bit overboard.

"I'd say you need to get laid, but since I watched you in an epic double-header with the Carlton twins last night, I know that's not the problem."

Peter rolled his eyes. He had gotten laid last night, rather spectacularly. Which reminded him, he needed to stop at the CVS and get another box of condoms.

"So, chill out. All this worrying isn't good for your blood pressure."

"Now you sound like my mother."

"God forbid!" 

The coffee shop door opened, flooding the place with bright August sunshine and too much Boston humidity. Peter blinked as his eyes adjusted – there was a guy standing at the door. From his silhouette, he looked young enough. Maybe this was their prospective housemate?

The silhouette approached their table and Peter blinked again. The guy was … perfection. Tall, slim, a brunet, and if he wasn't mistaken, those were blue eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses. Just his type. Which David clearly realized, because he kicked him under the table.

"Peter Burke? David Siegel?"

David answered, because Peter's tongue had gone AWOL. "Yep. You're Neal G. Caffrey?"

"Just Neal Caffrey. No need for the middle initial." He sat down across from them. "Who's who?"

David introduced himself and then added, "This moron next to me is Peter Burke. He had too much sex last night and squirted what was left of his brains into a condom, in case you want to know why he can't say hello."

Peter wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. Instead, he shoved at David and held out his hand. "Ignore this foul-mouthed ass. He's pre-law and can't help being a jerk."

Neal took it and gave him a speculative look. "But is he a liar?"

"Huh?"

"Did you really have too much sex last night? Because I thought that advanced lying was a prerequisite for pre-law."

David choked on his coffee and Peter grinned. "Is it possible to have too much sex?"

Neal smiled back. "I've been trying to find that out, but haven't found an upper limit yet."

Before Peter could say another word, David dropped the lease on the table. "I like you and I'm pretty sure that Sex-Brain here likes you too, so let's consider this a done deal. Your share of the rent is three hundred a month, utilities included. First and last paid up front. You'll get your own bedroom, but you'll have to share a bathroom with Sex-Brain. Since my name's on the lease, I get my own bathroom. House rules are simple – no smoking inside, no loud music or partying unless we both say it's okay. And that's likely not going to happen, since Sex-Brain is actually a serious student. Generally speaking, you make a mess, you clean it up. And you have a choice – either contribute fifteen bucks a month towards a cleaning service, or you'll clean the kitchen and living room, floor to ceiling, once a month."

"Cleaning service?" Neal blinked. "What student has a cleaning service?"

Peter answered, "This one does. He was born with a silver button in his mouth."

"Button?"

"Yeah – his family fortune came from making elevator number buttons."

"Well, I guess someone has to make those things."

David chimed in, "That's what my great-grandfather said." 

Neal pulled out his wallet and Peter's jaw dropped as he pulled out a half-dozen Franklins. "This should cover the first and last month's rent. What about a damage or security deposit? Do you need my share for that?"

Peter's brain was occupied with the fact that their new housemate dropped six hundred bucks on the table like he was paying for coffee and the newspaper, so David answered. "Nope, we're good. The guy who bailed on us didn't ask for his share of the security deposit back." David pointed to the lease. "This is the agreement between the three of us, just put your John Hancock on the bottom of the page and you're set."

Neal's lips twitched as he took the document and pulled out a pen. He didn't turn the paper around, but signed it with a flourish. "There, big enough so King George can read it."

Peter grabbed the paper and shouted with laughter. Scrawled across the top of the page was the name "John Hancock", complete with the legendary flourish. To Peter's mind, it looked exactly like the signature on the actual Declaration of Independence.

"How the hell did you do that?"

"Well, your hand is programmed over years to write letters a certain way. You try to mimic someone else's and your own style will always creep in. But, turn the signature upside down and it becomes nothing more than a drawing. All you have to do is copy the lines. Your preconceptions about letters go away and you have a perfect signature."

Peter blinked. "That's kind of dangerous."

Neal nodded, "Which is why I pay cash for everything. No checks, ever."

"Hate to interrupt you boys, but I still need Caffrey's signature on this. His _real_ signature."

"Okay, okay." Neal took the paper back, turned it the right way around and signed on the bottom, just under his signature and David's. "Satisfied?"

"Yup."

"When can I move in?"

"We're getting the keys first thing Monday morning. If you're at the house by nine, you can move in with us."

"Sounds perfect, I've got a few things to take care of this weekend." Neal slid out of the booth. "See you Monday morning."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal slotted himself into their household with the ease of a well-oiled cog. He was tidy, quiet, paid his share of the rent on time, always left money for the cleaning woman that David insisted on, never ate Peter's food, and disappeared every single weekend.

The last disturbed Peter and he didn't want to think about why. Yeah, Neal Caffrey was gorgeous in a way that really pushed his buttons, but Peter wasn't going to crap where he slept. Screwing Caffrey and living with him was a recipe for disaster. And from the few times they'd chatted, he certainly hadn't gotten any vibes that the man was interested in dick.

So he told himself that he was just curious where the man disappeared to every Friday night. He knew Caffrey was going out of town, he'd seen him head towards the T stop with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and get back to the house sometime early Monday morning, usually just as Peter was coming out of the shower or stumbling into the kitchen for his first cup of coffee.

And Peter kind of resented the man. Wherever he went, however he travelled, it was clearly in style. Seven-thirty in the morning and he was perfectly groomed, wearing – of all things – a suit and tie with matching pocket square and braces.

This particular Monday morning was no different, and Peter was more annoyed than usual. Caffrey was already in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee, doing the crossword puzzle. In pen.

Peter grunted, "Hey, that's my paper. That's my puzzle." 

"It is?"

"Yeah. I paid for the subscription. You can read the paper but next time you do the puzzle, I'll …" Damn, he was too stupid with sleep to think of a suitable threat.

"No need to threaten. I won't encroach on the puzzle again. Besides, it's not much of a challenge. Prefer the puzzles in the Times, myself."

"Really?" Peter glared at Caffrey. "Eugene Maleska's been repeating his clues for the last decade. I can do the New York Times Monday puzzle in about five minutes and even the Sunday ones are barely a challenge."

"I meant the _London_ Times – the cryptic crosswords. Those are a real challenge."

"Oh." Now Peter felt really stupid.

Caffrey made a show out of returning the paper to its original state. "Sorry about the puzzle – won't happen again." He got up and to Peter's amazement, actually yawned. "Shit, I'm tired. Mind if I take the shower first?"

"No, go ahead. And don't worry about the puzzle."

"Okay."

"Mind if I have some of your coffee?" Peter gestured to the half-full pot.

"Not at all." Neal hefted his duffle bag and disappeared into his bedroom. Peter buried himself in the day's news and the very excellent coffee that Neal managed to brew from the ancient drip pot that came with the house. A few minutes later, Peter heard the sound of the shower running and tried not to imagine what Caffrey looked like. Was he furry or smooth and more importantly, was he natural or cut. Peter tended to prefer smooth over hairy, and more importantly, cut over natural, after a very bad experience with smegma back in high school.

The shower noise stopped and the pipes squealed – one of the less than lovely aspects of living in an old house. Peter finished his coffee, refolded the paper and washed out his cup. Time to start the day. His first class wasn't until ten, but he wanted to take a run along the river. He and David usually ran together in the mornings, but David was back in Chicago until Wednesday. It was Rosh Hashanah, and that meant a command performance with the whole Siegel clan in attendance.

He headed back to his bedroom and crashed into Neal, who was wearing nothing but a towel around his hips.

"Oof." He found himself with an armful of damp, naked man. As he steadied himself, he looked down and almost drowned in a pair of blue eyes. This was the first time he'd encountered Caffrey without his glasses and he absently thought that he'd never seen such long eyelashes on anyone – girl or guy. He forced himself to let go and step back.

Neal apologized. "Sorry – I'm kind of blind as a bat without my glasses."

Peter nodded. Not only was his question about Neal's body hair answered – he didn't have a single strand of body hair between his neck and his navel – but his other question was answered, too. Neal was cut. And he was big. Not freakishly so, but enough to make Peter's mouth water.

"I, um, ah – am I going out for a run?"

Neal picked up his towel and didn't bother to put it back on. "What? Don't you know if you're going for a run?"

"Yeah – I am. Sorry. Brain's still not engaged." He brushed passed Neal and tried not to feel the warmth of the other man's skin. Back in his bedroom, he got out of the sweatpants and tee shirt he slept in and pulled on running shorts and sneakers. He found his Walkman, shoved a cassette into it, draped the headphones around his neck and headed out.

Thankfully, he didn't bump into Neal again and jogged down towards the Charles. He ran for almost an hour to the sound of the Rolling Stones, and the exercise cleared his head. By the time he was back at the house on Sidney Street, he'd pretty much conquered his inappropriate attraction.

The rest of the week went quickly. David returned and soon it was Friday again. To Peter's surprise, Neal was sitting at the kitchen table on Saturday morning, looking like an ordinary person, not someone who'd just stepped out of the pages of GQ.

"What are you doing here?" The words popped out of his mouth.

"Good morning to you, too." Neal lifted his coffee mug and stared at him over the rim.

"You're never here on the weekends."

"Well, this weekend, I am. Is that going to be a problem?"

"No. Of course not. I was just kind of shocked." He poured a cup of coffee and felt like an ass.

"So I guess no wild parties?"

David walked in. "Hey, Neal. And no, no wild parties. Although I might have a poker game here tonight if Peter can yank the stick out of his ass for a couple of hours."

Peter glared at his friend. "Why do you need to have the game here?"

"Because one of Jack's housemate's got some weird flu that I don't want to catch. And because my name's on the lease."

Peter felt his temper snap. "Will you shut the fuck up about that? Yeah – your name's on the lease, but that doesn't mean you get to lord it over everyone all the time. We pay rent, too. And if you want to have your fucking poker game here, I don't give a damn. But it would be nice to be invited once in a while."

David blinked. "I didn't know you wanted to play. Last time I asked, you said no."

"That was freshman year and I was dead broke. Couldn't afford the buy-in. You never asked again."

"Oh, okay. Sorry. You're more than welcome to join in. Neal? If you're going to be around, do you want to play, too?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

Peter asked, "Why not?"

"I – I just don't."

"You don't know how to play poker?" David seemed kind of appalled.

"Oh, I know the game. Believe me, just – well, you know I'm working on my PhD in statistics and probability theory."

"Ah, right. So you think that makes you a bit of a ringer?"

"Wouldn't you?"

David seemed unbothered by it. "Nah, it's a friendly game – the buy-in's fifty bucks. If you can get yourself a little extra cash at the expense of my friends, I don't care. Peter – you cool with this?"

There was something else going on with Caffrey, but Peter wasn't quite sure what it was. "Sure. Sounds good to me. If we're having the game here tonight, I'm going to head over to the library and finish my accounting homework now."

David shook his head. "Someday, someone is going to yank that stick out of your ass. These are supposed to be the best years of your life. All you do is study. "

Peter stared at David, completely forgetting that Neal was sitting there. "Come on, you know that that's not _all_ I do."

"That's right. You have sex. Lots of sex. Are you going to have sex in the library?"

"No, I'm going to finish my accounting homework, and get a start on my senior thesis. Besides, sex in the library is not really as much fun as you think it is."

"Damn, you have had sex in the library. How did you manage not to get arrested – you are something of a noisy fuck, you know."

The sound of Neal gagging on his coffee reminded Peter that there was someone else in the room. "Sorry – David's got a mouth like a sewer."

"S'okay." Neal wiped his face. "And for the record, if you've brought any girls back here, I've never heard anything."

David kept digging a hole for him. "Peter doesn't bring girls back here. He's more the love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy when it comes to the ladies."

"So how do you know he's a noisy fuck?"

Peter felt the deep burn of embarrassment cover his face, but David just smirked and said, "Ah, grasshopper, that would be telling."

Neal gave him a speculative look and didn't say a word. David took off, muttering something about getting beer and eats for the game and Peter grabbed his books and headed off to the library.

The afternoon had been somewhat productive. He finished his accounting homework, which was boring, but essential. However, he couldn't wrap his brain around a topic for his senior thesis. He had decided to double major in math and finance, because he wanted to have a job when he graduated. Peter knew that he'd never be good enough to make a real career out of math and he didn't have the temperament for academics. But the double major pretty much guaranteed him a slot at the Harvard Business School, which meant he'd be able to write his own ticket when he was done.

Nothing was ever going to equal playing professional baseball, but at least he'd have a shot at the good life. He had _plans_.

David might joke that he had a stick up his ass and that he never had any fun and that he was wasting the best years of his life studying. But they both knew that wasn't true. Peter had plenty of fun – and yes, sex _was_ fun. He figured that this was a time when he could be curious without worrying too much about what other people thought. He could have all the ass he wanted, all the pussy too, and it wouldn't matter. Once he was out of school, though – everything would have to change. No big Wall Street firm would hire a guy who was gay, or even bisexual. And that was okay. He was good at compartmentalizing things and pretty self-disciplined. If he couldn't have dick, he wouldn't have it. Once out of school, he'd get on with his life, find a wife, settle down, have a few kids, a dog, a house in the suburbs. He'd look back on these years with fondness, but he wouldn't long for something he couldn't, shouldn't have.

Peter lingered in his carrel, tossing around ideas for his future, when a movement caught his eye. It was Chad, or Brad, or someone from one of his classes last year. The guy was cute and he'd given him the eye all semester. This time, Peter gave him the eye back and the guy came closer. 

"Didn't know you worked up here – it's pretty dead on this floor."

"That's why I like it, no one's around." Peter leaned back, and spread his thighs. 

What's-his-name licked his lips. "No one?"

"I've been using this carrel for two years and I've never been bothered – by a librarian, that is."

"There's always a first time."

Peter couldn't help but notice the bulge developing behind the guy's fly. "Does that turn you on?"

He nodded.

"Do you swallow?"

He nodded again.

"Then get over here and get on your knees and suck my dick."

The guy did just that. And he was talented. Peter let him do all the work, deep throating him for minutes on end. While David might have teased him about being a noisy fuck, Peter was also pretty good at silent orgasms, too. He held the cocksucker's face to his groin as he pumped his come down his throat, all without saying a word.

The whole encounter lasted about ten minutes, which wasn't bad. The guy even tucked him back into his jeans before getting up.

"You good?"

The man nodded, licked his lips and pulled out a tin of breath mints. "Want one?"

Peter chuckled and declined the offer. "You're supposed to use them before or during, not after."

The guy sniffed. "I think I did just fine without them." 

"Yeah, you did."

The guy hefted his package. "Don't suppose you're going to offer to reciprocate." 

Peter shook his head. "Maybe some other time."

"I've heard you were a bit of a selfish prick."

"I guess you heard right." Peter knew his reputation. He really didn't care.

The guy sniffed again and gave him the stink eye before disappearing back into the stacks.

In the distance, Peter heard a carillon chime and cursed. It was six o'clock and he just remembered that he'd needed to stop at the drugstore and get condoms, but it was closed and he didn't feel like heading to the big CVS on Brattle. Besides, he needed to get back to the house. David was probably going to fuss about the game and he should give him a hand getting it set up. He probably should also take a shower and wash the smell of sex off himself.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter grimaced and tossed his headphones aside as the batteries on his Walkman died and the music came to a halt. Not that he needed the music to block out noise – like he had at the dorms. On the contrary, the house was too quiet and the music helped him concentrate.

The textbook joined the headphones on the bed and Peter leaned back. He was in no mood to study. He was in the mood for something else. But it was Sunday and the bars were closed. It was also too late to head over to the library and hope that what's-his-face might be hanging around, still. Not that he was looking to reciprocate, but if he had to, he would. Or maybe he'd head over to campus, there had to be some girls around. Except he was out of condoms.

Well, that really wasn't a problem. He could just take care of himself. 

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts and intentions. Peter sat up, double-checked that he wasn't revealing anything he should and called out, "Come in, Neal."

Neal came in and asked, "How did you know it was me?"

"I saw David leave an hour ago and he hasn't come back yet." Peter gestured to the window, which overlooked the front of the house."

"Ah, and that's why you've got a four year scholarship to Harvard."

"Among other reasons." Peter smiled. After the game last night he felt a lot more comfortable around Neal. Which was strange, because Neal wiped him out. It was a winner take all game and Neal wiped everyone out. "What's up?"

"Just wanted to give this to you." Neal held out a folded wad of bills.

"Huh?"

"The pot from last night." Neal dropped the money on the bed and sat down next to him. "You should have won."

"As I recall, you beat me on that last hand, fair and square."

Neal made a face.

"Did you cheat?"

"No, not really."

"What do you mean, not really?"

"Remember the conversation we had when David asked me to play?"

"Yeah – you said you shouldn’t. You thought you'd have an unfair advantage because of your incredible math skills."

Neal winced. "Yeah, well. That's not really the whole truth."

"Oh?"

"I didn't win because I'm a math genius. Or _just_ because of that."

"Then what do you mean?" Peter was getting a little annoyed at all this cryptic back and forth.

"I'm a pro."

"A pro?"

"A professional poker player. That's what I do on the weekends. I'm either in Atlantic City or a private club in Manhattan – high stakes games. That's how I've paid my way through school."

"Oh." Then something occurred to him. "You're awfully young to be a professional poker player."

Neal chuckled. "Don't tell anyone, but I started playing when I was sixteen. Got myself a really good fake ID and the casinos don't care how old I am, as long as I don't cheat and I don't fleece the whales in every game."

"Whales?"

"The really big high rollers – the ones who spend a few hundred grand a weekend.

"So – you were going to win last night, no matter what."

"Pretty much."

"So, why are you giving this to me?" Peter picked up the money.

"It doesn't seem fair – you would have won if I hadn't been in the game."

"Oh." It didn't feel right, though. "But you were, and you played better than anyone." He tried to hand the money back to Neal. He refused to take it.

"It was a fun game, but it wouldn't be right. You're a good player – almost impossible to read."

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone has tells – little ticks that betray their emotions. David blinks three times whenever he has a good hand. Jack taps his index finger on the table when he's got nothing. The other guys all have some type of obvious twitch. I couldn't figure out yours until we went head to head."

Now Peter was curious. "So, what gives me away?"

"I shouldn't tell you."

"Come on, you can't _not_ tell me."

"You swallow twice when you've got an ace in your hand."

"You can see me swallow?"

"Your mole – it moves a little."

Peter touched his throat self-consciously. 

"If you were wearing a collared shirt or a turtleneck, I never would have figured it out."

"Oh." Peter flipped through the bills; there was three hundred bucks there. A lot to him, but probably just pocket change for Neal. 

"So, if you’re a professional poker player, why are you working on a PhD in math?"

"Because I don't want to be a professional poker player for the rest of my life. Besides, I like the challenge of academics."

"I guess if you don't have to worry about money, it's a good career."

"Yeah. What about you? I know that Bingham was pissed that you turned down the assistanceship. He's been muttering about the goddamned B-school stealing his best students."

"Professor Bingham was really that pissed?" 

Neal nodded. "You're going to the Business School?"

"I've applied, just waiting for an answer. My advisor for my Finance degree is pretty certain I'll get in. Then I'll get my MBA, make a fortune on Wall Street, and retire early."

"You've got your life mapped out already?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

Neal sat there and gave him a speculative look. "Can I ask a question?"

"Sure."

"What's with you and David?"

"Me and David?"

"Yeah – there's definitely a vibe going on between you."

"What are you asking?"

Neal leaned back, hands up in a defensive posture. "Just saying – he seems to be inordinately interested in your sex life. Just wondering if you two had something going on."

Peter didn't answer – he couldn't tell what Neal was thinking.

"It's cool if you do." Neal grinned.

Peter thought that smile should be classified as a weapon. It disarmed him completely. "I'm not gay."

And just like that, the smile disappeared.

Peter grinned back. "I'm bi."

"Oh." Neal looked at him again. "Oh…"

"Yeah, oh."

They sat together and Peter waited for Neal to say something else. Or get up and leave. 

"So, what about you and David? You're not having a thing?"

"It's complicated."

"He's in the closet?"

"No." Peter figured that he ought to tell Neal the truth. "Okay, it's not so complicated. He likes to watch."

"Seriously? He watches you have sex? You like that?"

"I don't mind, and it's only sex with guys that he likes to see. He's a perverted freak. He gets plenty of action on his own – and only with girls. When he watches, he's just watching. He never participates."

Neal laughed and shook his head. "Takes all kinds."

"So, what about you? I don't get the gay vibe off you."

"I'm like you – I swing both ways. Mostly prefer guys, but girls are good, too." Neal dropped his hand on Peter's knee. 

Which Peter promptly removed.

"Why? I really got the feeling you were interested. You couldn't take your eyes off me when I dropped the towel last Monday."

"That was deliberate?"

"You're that dim?" Neal put his hand back on his knee.

"I guess I wasn't expecting it." And Peter moved the hand again. "I don't think hooking up with you is a good idea."

"Why not?"

"We have to live together."

"So what? That makes it really convenient."

"And really awkward the morning after. I don't do regular relationships."

"What do you mean regular relationships?"

Peter explained, "Guys are generally a one-time only thing."

"I get the feeling that girls are, too. David pretty much said you're the 'wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am' type."

Peter shrugged. "I've had a few relationships with women, but it's different with guys. Never stay the night, no breakfast the next morning. I'm not interested in anything more than casual screwing."

"Well, I'm not looking for hearts and flowers or a relationship – nothing exclusive or anything like that. Just saying that having a fuck-buddy in the bedroom next door wouldn't be a bad thing." The hand was back and it was moving north of his knee.

Neal was smiling, his hand was sneaking under the board shorts he was wearing, and Peter found him almost impossible to resist. He licked his lips.

"Do that again."

"What?"

"That thing with your tongue."

Peter repeated the gesture.

"I bet you're a fantastic kisser."

"I don't kiss."

Neal looked like he'd been slapped. "You don't kiss?"

"I've never kissed a guy. And kissing a girl? All that makeup? It's like licking a candle." Peter made a face.

"Well, I promise you, I don't wear makeup."

"You want me to kiss you?"

"Yeah." Neal sounded enraptured by the idea. "Or I could kiss _you_. Kissing is …" Neal licked his lips. "Kissing someone for the first time is like turning the corner and walking into paradise. Like finding something unexpected and realizing that it's exactly what you needed in your life."

Peter blinked. He hadn't expected this poetry from Neal.

And Neal must have realized that. He gave him a chagrined look and shrugged. "Sorry – I like kissing and I can't imagine someone not. It's like someone not liking chocolate."

Peter blinked again.

"And if you tell me you don't like chocolate, I'm going to get up and walk out of here. Because there's something seriously wrong with someone who doesn't like chocolate."

"I like chocolate."

"You'll like kissing, too."

"And you'll be the one to prove it to me?"

Neal didn't answer, but he put his words into action. Peter's accounting textbook and his Walkman were carefully deposited on the floor and suddenly Neal was perched over him. "I bet you're a top."

Peter nodded. He'd bottomed a few times back in high school, but that wasn't his scene. "I really enjoy being in control."

Neal looked down at him, eyes dancing with humor and understanding. "I'm sure you do. But for the moment, just relax. I'll let you run the scene in a little bit."

"Okay." He wasn't sure why he was agreeing to this. Neal Caffrey should be off limits for so many reasons.

Peter didn't close his eyes as Neal's face got closer and closer. The scent of the man – his perspiration, the lingering tang from his shaving cream, the soap he used, was intoxicating and he wanted to drink it in. Neal was so close now that Peter could feel the heat of his skin on his face and the universe seemed to begin and end with those blue eyes. He was dizzy, at least until Neal's lips touched his – just a gentle brush of firm flesh against his mouth.

Peter breathed in and he could taste Neal, and somewhere in the back of his brain, he knew he was forever going to associate the flavors of toothpaste and coffee with kissing. Neal's tongue snuck between his lips, first shy and tentative, then sly and wicked. 

Then demanding.

Peter realized that Neal wasn't holding him down and there was no reason to remain passive. He reached up and cupped Neal's face between his hands, holding him in place while he answered Neal's insistent tongue with his own.

_Yeah, he could really get into kissing._

Neal chuckled and Peter swallowed his exhalation before breaking the kiss. "What's so funny?"

"For someone who doesn't kiss, you're pretty damn good at it."

Peter felt himself smiling. "I've always been a fast learner."

Neal started kissing him again and Peter felt his arousal grow like a tidal wave. It wasn't just his cock – which felt hard enough to break stone – but his whole body. Everywhere they were connected felt like fire and he desperately needed to get out of his clothes. To get Neal out of his clothes.

It didn't take much effort to flip Neal over onto his back and take the dominant position. 

"Well, that didn't take long." Neal grinned.

"You don't mind?"

"Nah, I figured that I'd end up like this once we got started."

Peter snorted. "Yeah, well…" He pulled his tee shirt off and commanded, "Get naked."

"And you're bossy, too."

"You like that, don't you."

Neal lifted his hips. "I think that's pretty evident."

Peter rocked back against Neal, appreciating the massive evidence of the other man's desire. "Damn." 

"Damn?"

"Just an expression of appreciation. And if you're not going to get your shirt off, I may just tear it off you."

"Oooh, you're going all caveman on me." Neal teased him, just lifting the edge of his shirt high enough to expose his belly button.

"Caffrey…" Peter sat back on his haunches, not caring that his cock was making a rather obscenely wet tent out of his shorts. Actually, he was rather proud of it. And even more delighted when Neal reached for it.

"God, you're hung like a horse."

Peter laughed, he couldn't help it. "And you like that?"

"Mmm, yeah. But it kind of terrifies me."

"Don't worry – I'll go slow."

"I like being terrified." Neal finally stopped teasing him and pulled off his shirt.

Peter took a deep breath, just to get control of himself. Some guys preferred big pecs, big arms and salivated over muscle magazines, but he wasn't that type. He liked his guys to look like guys, but no over-developed caricatures of masculinity. Michelangelo's _David_ rather than Tom of Finland's leather dudes.

And Neal Caffrey was his ideal. Smooth and strong and definitely a guy. Peter found himself quelling the urge to bite down on the perfect round apple of his shoulder, to mark him in the most primitive way possible.

Instead, he leaned over and kissed Neal. Nothing gentle or tender or slow. He kissed Neal because he needed to, and Neal kissed him back with the same ravenous hunger.

As he feasted on Neal's mouth, Peter thought, _How could I not like kissing?_

Neal's hands found their way under his shorts and without breaking their connection, Peter managed to wriggle out of them. In retrospect, it was a miracle that he didn't strangle his dick. Neal's jeans took a little more effort and they were laughing and panting before they finally managed to get him naked.

"Condoms? You got condoms?" They were lying next to each other and Neal was stroking his cock. "I want this monster in me."

Peter rolled away and growled. "That's going to be a problem. I forgot to get condoms."

Neal leaned over him. "You don't even have an extra in your wallet?"

"Nope, used that one, too. What about you? You carrying?"

Neal shook his head in frustration. "Got lucky last weekend, forgot to replace it. Don't have any in my room, damn it."

A voice interrupted them. "But I've got a brand new box, and I'm willing to share."

Peter looked up and saw David leaning against the door frame with his hand down his pants. "If we let you watch, right?"

Neal groaned. "You weren't kidding." He turned and buried his face against Peter's chest.

"Nope." Peter curled around Neal, feeling oddly protective. "David, get out."

"Really?" David stroked himself. "Come on, my –"

"If you say that your name's on the lease, I'm going to punch you."

David let out a deep sigh and gave him a wry smile. "Okay, okay. But you'll either have to go bare, or do something other than fucking. You don't share, I don't share."

Peter got out of bed and without the slightest shred of embarrassment, closed the door in David's face and locked it.

But of course, David had to have the last word. Through the closed door, he said, "I've got Trojans, extra-large. Just saying."

Peter looked at Neal with a question in his eyes. 

Neal shook his head and Peter didn't bother responding. He just climbed back onto the bed and over Neal. "There's plenty we can do without condoms."

"It's going to get messy."

"That's what the washing machine is for."

Neal laughed; the sound like a bright silver bell. "True enough."

Peter wrapped his arms around Neal, relishing the heat, the mass, the complete nakedness of the other man. He usually didn't get this amount of skin when he was with another guy. In fact, it had been a long time since he'd been totally naked with a man. So long that he couldn't remember.

The animal-like urgency that he'd felt before had morphed into something richer, slower. He wanted to explore Neal, to take his time. And Neal didn't seem to mind. They kissed, lips and tongue meeting and retreating in luscious slow motion, like something out of a lesbian porno. But better.

Neal's hands, so hot and so insistent, were everywhere. On his hips, pinching his nipples, squeezing his ass, and one daring finger toying with his hole.

Peter reciprocated and his middle finger breached that hot, tight space. Neal growled into his mouth and started bucking against him, his cock burning hot against Peter's thigh. 

"That's it, come on, baby, come on." Peter crooned, encouraging Neal to ride him. 

"Fuck me, Peter. Fuck me."

"Can't – not yet." But he did push his finger a little deeper. "You're so tight. Bet you're gonna need a lot of lube when I fuck you with my cock."

"You're gonna tear me apart."

"But you want that, don't you?"

"Yeah, oh yeah. You're so huge." Neal's voice was breathy, whiney.

Peter wondered if that was his only appeal to Neal, but then discarded the idea. Neal had started coming onto him before his "assets" were evident. Hell, Neal had dropped his towel last weekend without even being sure that he liked guys.

"Come on, come for me, come for me." His hands clamped hard on Neal's ass, Peter jerked his hips, forcing Neal to ride his thigh. "Wanna see you come."

Neal grasped his cock and worked it, his fist pumping. He flung his head back, his mouth wide open, gasping as semen erupted out of it in long ropey strings. Most of it hit Peter's chest, but some splashed on his chin and just a bit landed on his lips.

It didn't take much effort to flip Neal over; he was almost boneless from his orgasm. But instead of using his fist, he maneuvered Neal so that his cock rode between his sweaty ass cheeks, the head poking hard against the tight hole, but never breaching it. He worked himself slowly against Neal, holding his butt tight, making it like a glove against his cock.

Neal stared at him, licking his lips, panting and gasping and Peter felt like a god as he came and came and came. It seemed like his orgasm was never going to end.

But it did and he collapsed against Neal, the pair of them coated in come and grinning like idiots.

Neal raised himself upon an elbow and peered at Peter. "So, was I right or was I right about kissing?"

"Far be it from me to contradict a genius." 

Neal kissed him one last time, licking that little bit of come that had dried on Peter's lips. "Since you've so graciously acceded to my greater wisdom, you can have the shower first."

Peter spoke without considering his words. "How about sharing it with me?"

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**Cambridge, Late May, 1990**

The house on Sidney Street was quieter than usual when Peter let himself in. It was a little after two AM on a Monday morning. The semester – his last – was over; the graduation ceremony for the MBA students was taking place in a few days. David had split for Chicago right after his last exam. He said he was annoyed at him and at Neal for finishing their degrees before he finished his, so he wasn't hanging around. Peter didn't blame him.

As much as he was looking forward to starting the next stage of his life, he was also more than a little terrified. There was so much that could go wrong…

Neal's BMW was parked on the street, which meant he was back and probably asleep, given the hour. He'd defended his dissertation earlier in the week and had gone to Atlantic City to celebrate, which meant a high-stakes poker game. Peter had gone with Neal to a few games over the past few years, and the amount of money that had been in play had always made him kind of queasy. He knew that he was probably being stupid about it, considering that he'd planned on joining a Wall Street investment firm and would be risking a hell of a lot more than that. But this was personal – those chips were representing actual dollars, not theoretical assets on a balance sheet.

Which might be one of the reasons why he was changing his plans; the ones he'd made when he was a freshman and realized that as much as he liked the pure theory of numbers, he'd never be good enough to make a living at it.

He needed a drink, but the fridge was empty of everything except a container of milk, a bottle of ketchup and a jar of olives. Peter rummaged through the mostly empty cabinets and found a mostly empty bottle of whiskey. David had probably left it behind because there were just a few ounces left. Too much to toss but not enough to make it worthwhile to haul back home. Peter poured the whiskey into a coffee mug and took a sip. He wasn't a fan of hard liquor and drinking it out of the wrong type of glass made it taste even worse. But he needed the buzz from the alcohol, if just to shut off his brain for a little while.

"Hey there."

Peter looked up. Neal was standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers – his usual sleep attire.

"Thought I heard you come in."

Peter shrugged and took another swallow of whiskey. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay. Wasn't really sleeping anyway. Got in around midnight."

"Good game?"

"Yeah – took home a couple of big pots. Should be enough to keep me in style for a few months."

Peter wasn't sure what he should say about that.

"You okay?"

"I guess."

"What's the matter?"

The kitchen was dark, but Peter could still see Neal's face. His stomach roiled a bit at the concern in his expression. "Just feeling a little weird."

"Endings are always hard."

Peter nodded. Yes, they absolutely were.

"But endings also mean beginnings, too. A couple of weeks of vacation and then you're going to be a big-shot Wall Street broker."

"I guess."

"You guess? You're graduating at the top of your class, you've had a paper published in the Review that's already considered legendary, and you've been hired by one of the most exclusive banks on Wall Street."

"Yeah, I know, I know. Like I said, it all just feels … weird." Anxious to change the subject, Peter said, "I guess you're happy to be done, _Doctor_ Caffrey."

"You know, with us academics, you're never really done. There's the whole post-doc process, publishing, more publishing. Academia is as cutthroat as poker."

"And you enjoy it."

"That I do. I like being the smartest person in the room." Neal paused for beat, then continued, "And the sexiest one, too." He struck a pose, hips cocked, one arm raised, the other toying with his navel. Over the last three years, Neal had filled out; his chest was broad, his abs tight, his butt still like a peach but as firm as marble. Not anyone's image of a weedy academic.

Peter growled. Neal was turning him on, not that that was difficult. But he was also doing his best to destroy the resolutions he'd made.

"So – you get any action this weekend?"

Peter thought about lying, but couldn't. "No. Was busy getting my stuff cleared out. Sold most of my textbooks, got everything packed. How did I manage to accumulate so much shit?" He knew he was babbling.

Neal didn't seem to notice. "Sometimes, it's the nature of the beast. You know you've got a place to stow it, so you just keep acquiring things that you can't bring yourself to get rid of."

"Yeah, I guess. And you're right about stowing it – most of it is going to sit in cartons in my folk's basement for the next few years. What about your stuff?"

Neal shrugged. "I don't have that problem, so other than my clothes and my art supplies, I really don't have a lot of stuff. All my academic work is logged into the university archives."

"Ah. Okay." The moment felt all kinds of awkward and wrong as Peter remembered that Neal didn't have much of a family or a childhood home to return to.

Neal reached out and took the coffee mug from him. "Isn't it a little late for caffeine?"

"That's not coffee."

Neal sniffed the contents and made a face. "You're right. Drinking this shit at two AM is probably worse than coffee."

"True." But Peter took the mug back and swallowed the rest of the whiskey.

"If you're not going to tell me what's the matter, how about fucking me instead?"

Neal's tone was so blasé that Peter wasn’t sure he'd heard right and when the words did finally register, he started to choke. 

Neal took the mug away from him and rubbed his back until the spasms subsided. "I'd apologize, but I'm horny and there's no one else around."

Peter almost started choking again. After three years, he should have been accustomed to Neal's matter-of-fact outrageousness.

"So?" Neal stood there, his hands edging up Peter's tee shirt. "Wanna fuck?"

There were a million reasons why he should say no. He could plead exhaustion, that he was too buzzed to get it up, … Except that his dick wasn't listening to his brain and was making its feelings well known.

"Come on." Neal took his hand. "We've got the place to ourselves. If you want to, we can even do it on the kitchen table."

"No thanks. I've actually done it on the kitchen table and it barely survived the encounter."

It must have been the moonlight, because the expression on Neal's face seemed to be one of hurt and Peter couldn't quell the need to explain. "Last year, David brought a pair of girls from BU back, and they were … well, you know David…" Peter's voice trailed off as Neal's dismay changed to humor.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Neal pulled on him. "If not the kitchen, then we've got our choice of bedrooms. Wanna defile David's?"

"It's not his anymore. He's got his own place for his last year. All his shit's gone and the mattress went to Goodwill."

"Probably should have ended up in a landfill. Or a toxic waste dump."

"True." Peter let Neal drag him back towards his bedroom. They navigated through the boxes and Peter took control, pushing Neal down on his bed, stripping off his shorts, then getting out of his own clothes. He looked at Neal, beautiful and perfect and practically glowing with happiness. He should walk away now, he should tell Neal about his plans and leave. He should break this off before it became impossible to do so.

But he didn't. He kissed Neal and let the world and his worries disappear in a rush of desire and all the emotions he would never, ever dare name.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sunlight hit his face and Peter rolled over in an attempt to avoid it. And found another body next to him. That simple fact chased away any desire to go back to sleep.

He never, ever stayed the night with anyone and no one ever stayed the night with him.

But even as his brain was trying to deny the inevitable, he remembered the early morning encounter with Neal, he remembered Neal dragging him back to his bedroom, he remembered kissing Neal, drowning in his brightness. He remembered making love with Neal, because what they did last night couldn't be compared to the casual fucking he usually did.

And that was a problem. For almost three years, he and Neal had been _making love_ , and that was messing everything up.

He wasn't a liar, he wasn't a cheat, and he knew he couldn't move on with his life if he lived half of it in the shadows.

Peter sat up, hoping that the motion would disturb Neal, would wake him up. But it didn't and the other man just let out a tiny snore and rolled over, burying his face deeper into the pillow. Peter climbed over him, which still did nothing to disturb Neal, and headed into the bathroom. 

By the time he'd finished with his morning business, showered, shaved, and dressed, Neal was awake and getting out of bed.

Peter wanted to say something, but couldn't, not as Neal walked towards him, buck naked and beautifully unglamorous from sleep. As he passed, he leaned over and kissed Peter. Thankfully, he didn't say a word.

Peter picked up an envelope from his dresser and headed into the kitchen, which was mostly bare – as last night's foraging revealed. But since the coffee maker came with the house, it was staying, and there was just enough Folger's left for one more pot. As the coffee was brewing, Peter thought about what he needed to do and how he was going to do it. His father had once told him that life comes down to a few moments and Peter knew that this was one of them.

Just as the last of the coffee dripped into the pot, Peter heard the shower turn off. Neal would be out here in a few minutes. He poured two cups of coffee and split the last of the milk between them and right on cue, Neal joined him, casually dressed in shorts and a tee shirt. Peter pushed the mug towards him.

"Thanks." Neal sat down across from him. He took a sip and Peter could see him trying not to make a face. 

"Yeah, it's pretty terrible. You were the only one who could make a decent pot from that thing."

"And soon, you'll have a secretary to make fabulous coffee for you."

Peter rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like utter crap. "Um…" But he couldn't get the words out.

"Still feeling weird?" Neal reached out and squeezed his hand. "It's going to be great; you're going to be great."

"Um, Neal – there's something I need to tell you."

"I don't think I like the sound of that."

Peter decided to just spill everything, no sugar-coating, no soft-soaping. "I'm not going to New York in September. I'm not going to work for Goldman Sachs."

"What?"

Peter pushed the envelope he'd taken from his room over to Neal, who picked it up and noted the return address. "This is from the FBI. The Office of Recruitment."

Peter nodded.

Neal took the letter out and read it.

_"Dear Mr. Burke -_

_We are pleased to offer you a seat in the FBI Training Academy at Quantico for the class beginning on August 1, 1990._

_Although the FBI generally requires incoming trainees to have at least two years post-college experience, your stellar academics, your performance on the Academy's fitness trials, and your high marks in your interview evaluations, warrant a waiver of this requirement._

_Please contact the Recruitment Office at your earliest convenience to let us know if you will be accepting this offer."_

Neal carefully folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. "You never told me you were thinking about joining the FBI."

Peter shrugged. "This is something recent." 

"Can't be that recent. You've had interviews. You've done the fitness qualifications."

"The FBI was on campus and recruiting a few months ago. I went down to Quantico during Spring Break. You had gone to that academic conference in Switzerland." He squirmed, uncomfortable with the questioning.

Neal stared at him, it wasn't hard to read the hurt in his eyes. "And you didn't say anything because?"

"Because it all seemed very up in the air – I really didn't think they were going to take me."

Neal persisted, "But you didn't even tell me you were interested in law enforcement. As long as I've known you, you wanted to make your fortune on Wall Street. Now you're going to become a government drone with an entry level salary about the equivalent to what you'd have paid in taxes if you'd stuck to your original plan."

"I changed my mind. This is what I want."

"Why?"

Peter refused to answer that question. "Because it's what I want."

"I'm not buying that. You aren't the type of guy who just brakes hard and does a one-eighty with his life."

"Well, apparently I am." Peter crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the chair, hoping that he was making his point clear.

Neal took a deep breath. "You're really doing this. You're really giving up on everything you've worked for."

"I don't call it giving up. It's a change in plans."

"I still think it would have been nice if you told me. We _were_ going to get an apartment together this fall."

"I didn't find out until last week. You were working like a dog to prepare for your dissertation defense. I didn't want to distract you."

"Why do I feel like there's some subtext here that I'm not seeing?" 

It kind of shocked Peter that Neal – the professional poker player – was wearing his emotions so blatantly. And then he wasn't. The hurt that was so evident on his face was masked over in a heartbeat and Neal was smiling, his eyes wide and calm, everything smoothed over.

"Well, I guess it can't hurt to have an FBI agent as a friend."

Anxiety roiled in Peter's stomach, sending the bitter coffee back into his throat. It was time for the hard words. "Listen, I really don't think it will be such a good idea to stay in touch."

"Huh?" And the hurt was back.

"We're really not friends." Peter shrugged in feigned nonchalance, pretending to be oblivious to the pain he was causing. "Look, Neal – we were housemates, fuck-buddies, but that's it. I don't think we should keep pretending that we were anything more than that. This is what's best for everyone, Neal. You have your life; I have one of my own." Peter stood up, ending the conversation. There was nothing left to say.

He left Neal sitting in the kitchen, but ten minutes later, from his bedroom window, he watched as Neal carried out his stuff and loaded it into his car. The BMW roared off, tires squealing in the quiet of the morning, as Neal Caffrey exited his life.

Peter told himself that it was for the best.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**New York, September 2015**

The shrill tones of Peter's cell interrupted his memories. He dropped the photograph and answered his phone, only to find it was a recorded message.

_"This message is for Peter Burke, reminding him that his chemotherapy appointment is scheduled for Monday at ten AM. Please confirm by pressing 'one' and the pound sign to continue. To cancel, press 'two' and please wait for an attendant to reschedule."_

He confirmed the appointment and the recorded voice continued with the instructions; what to wear, what to eat and not eat, to bring his insurance card and a list of all current medications. He listened, but he really didn't pay attention. He'd been through this before, although not for the chemo. This was his first session for the drugs, but he'd been having radiation therapy for a month and had the whole routine down pat.

Days like today made it hard to understand why he was even bothering.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	3. Chapter 3

Neal supposed that hating Monday mornings was an adult thing, and at fifty years old, it was pretty well time he became an adult, because this was a Monday worth hating. He'd strolled into the offices of Sundance Equity a little after ten AM, settled in to review the latest acquisition strategy and before he finished his first cup of coffee, he got a text from the firm's troubleshooter, Diana Berrigan.

_We have a problem. You have to come to the conference room._

Neal replied, _I'm busy. I pay you a lot of money to make sure I don't have to deal with problems._

_Don't make me come get you._

Neal sighed. He liked Diana from the moment Mozzie had hired her. She was tough, honest, smart, and she didn't put up with any bullshit. If she said he was needed, he'd damned well better get his ass into the conference room.

Where he found Diana, Mozzie, and a man with a badge on his belt.

Diana introduced him. "Neal, this is Special Agent Clinton Jones, from the New York FBI office. He specializes in white collar crime."

Neal shook the man's hand. "What brings you to Sundance Equity?" He tried not to worry. Diana did a good job keeping him and Mozzie out of trouble, but having the FBI show up was never a good thing. 

"Your firm may have been the victim of a crime, and we're hoping that you can provide some assistance."

"Crime?" Neal looked at Mozzie, who was wearing a sour expression. Of course his friend and business partner would be reluctant to cooperate with the government.

Diana answered. "According to the FBI, Terrence Pratt's been using information we've provided about our acquisitions and divestments to line his own pockets." Pratt was their advisor at Whitcomb & White, he'd been handling their transactional work for the last three years.

Neal felt sick. "Insider trading?"

The agent nodded. "We've found emails from Pratt to the target of another insider trading investigation with confidential information about several of Sundance's recent acquisitions and sales."

Neal had to ask, "Who was Pratt in contact with?"

"I'm not at liberty to reveal that information."

Neal shook his head. "I never liked the man, but he came highly recommended."

That seemed to interest Agent Jones. "By who?"

Neal looked over to Diana, and she nodded, so he gave up the information. "Dennis Flynn, from Flynn Capital Management."

Agent Jones' reaction was imperceptible, but for Neal – who'd made several fortunes by his skill in reading imperceptible reactions – it spoke volumes. Flynn was probably the insider that led Agent Jones to their door. "And now I guess you'd like us to give you all of our records regarding Sundance's dealings with Flynn."

"That would be helpful."

Mozzie finally said something, "You know, I really don't like the Feds coming in here, sticking their noses into our business."

The agent made a big mistake, taking on Mozzie and his attitude. "We could come back with a subpoena."

Moz got pugnacious. "And you know that that subpoena would be quashed like a bug. Sundance has no obligation to assist in your persecution."

Jones made another big mistake – trying to correct Mozzie. "Prosecution, you mean." 

"I used the right word, Fed."

"Moz – come on," Neal tried to soothe his friend. "There's nothing wrong with helping put the bad guys away."

"I'm objecting on principle." Mozzie glared at him, at Diana, and at Agent Jones. Before storming out, he added, "Do what you want, but don't come crying to me when you find that you've got fleas." 

"Fleas?" Jones seemed puzzled.

"Mozzie isn't a big fan of big government."

"Ah." Jones rocked back on his heels. "The Justice Department would appreciate your cooperation."

Now that Neal had committed to helping the FBI, he wasn't so sure it was a good idea. "We're a small firm and we really don't have the resources to devote to an extensive document production exercise."

Agent Jones tried to reassure him, "We'll limit the scope and make this as easy as possible for you."

"Okay." Neal supposed that they'd been lucky. After nearly twenty years in the business, this was the first time the government had come knocking. "Diana, can you wrap this up? I have work to do."

"Sure thing, boss."

Neal retreated to his office and launched the company's security camera application. When they'd installed the system, Moz had wanted to wire every room for sound, but he'd squashed the idea. The common areas and conference rooms were monitored, but without audio, and right now, Neal regretted that. He watched Diana and Agent Jones talk for a few minutes and he got the feeling – from their body language – that they knew each other quite well. 

He didn't have long to wait for confirmation. Diana escorted the FBI agent out and came right to his office. Neal didn't bother to dismiss the security camera application – Diana knew she was being observed; it was her suggestion to put the cameras in.

Diana came in and flopped down on a chair. "I suppose you want to know what Agent Jones and I talked about."

"Actually, I'm more interested in how long you've known him."

"Of course you would be. We were at the Academy at the same time, and were both posted to New York. I worked in Antiterrorism and Clinton got assigned to Financial Crimes."

"You've remained in touch?"

"We've gotten together on occasion since I left the Bureau, but I haven't seen him in a couple of years."

"Okay – now what did you talk about?"

"He teased me about the cushy gig I'd landed. I wanted to tell him that keeping you and Moz in line was a hell of a lot harder than chasing terrorists through their bank accounts."

Neal chuckled. "I know you're exaggerating."

"Only slightly." Diana pinched her fingers together to demonstrate.

"Which reminds me. Played poker this weekend."

"And because you're telling me, I take it you weren't in Vegas or Connecticut or Atlantic City."

"Caz Abramov had a game going in the old New York Room."

"Neal…" Diana shook her head in exasperation. "You promised to stay away from private games. Especially ones run by Chechen mob bosses."

"That's never been proven." He shrugged. "Besides, I was bored."

"How much did you take home?"

Neal liked that she assumed he'd won. He pulled out his wallet and tossed a wire transfer receipt onto his desk. "Nine hundred thousand. The house took ten percent."

Diana took the piece of paper and grimaced. "You are going to give your accountant a headache."

Neal shrugged, "That's why I pay him a fortune. It keeps him in Tylenol. But we have a more immediate problem."

"Yeah – the Pedersen acquisition. We were going to see Pratt about that tomorrow."

"We're now without an advisor. Although I'm sure that there'll be plenty of banks lining up to offer their services."

"Which is another problem, you know." Diana grimaced.

"It is?"

"If we put the word out that Pratt's no longer working on Sundance business, people are going to want to know why."

The light dawned. "Which is going to make your friend, Agent Jones, very unhappy."

"Right."

"So, what do you suggest?"

"I know someone who might be able to step in and keep things quiet."

"Oh?"

"My former boss at the FBI went into M&A about ten years ago. Shall I contact him?"

"Sure – but we have to move on it this week. Wednesday by the latest. Old man Pedersen's a squirrelly bastard and he just might back out if there's a delay."

"Will do."

Two hours later, he got a calendar notice from Diana that the meeting had been set up with her old boss' new firm for Wednesday afternoon. Which was much less interesting than the text he got from Elizabeth Mitchell.

_Have some ideas for your friend's party. When can we talk?_

_How about dinner tonight if you're free?_

Five minutes passed without a reply and Neal wondered if Elizabeth was playing coy, but he was pleased when she did answer. _Yes, free tonight._

Neal sent a reply without thinking, _Let me cook for you – easier to discuss things without constant interruption_. Then he wondered if he was coming on too strong. He wasn't looking to date her, and he was little more than a stranger.

But she didn't seem to mind. _When and where?_

He sent her his address and the time – eight o'clock. He then arranged for a grocery delivery – no point offering to make dinner for someone if he had no food to cook with.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Elizabeth wasn't all that certain that having dinner with Neal Caffrey tonight was such a good idea. Not that she didn't want to see him again, or that she was bothered because he'd invited her to his apartment where he'd offered to cook dinner. She knew he wasn't looking for anything more than her skills as an event planner and maybe a platonic friendship – he'd made his preferences quite clear during their first meeting.

It was her own uncertain mood – one that she didn't want to inflict on a client. She was still so hurt and angry from what Peter said to her. To declare that they weren't friends? That they were divorced and therefore meant nothing to each other? And yet, part of her could understand her ex-husband's point. Why _should_ he remain friends with her? After all, she'd divorced him. Yet, the way he'd spoken to her; the utter coldness, the absolute finality of his words – _we are not friends_ – still had the power to make her burst into tears, like she did after Peter left her sitting alone at their table at _Donatella's_.

She needed to put that behind her. She needed to remember that she was the one who wanted to end their marriage. Peter was certainly free to choose not to retain a connection with her. But it was still hard to reconcile the cruelty of his words with her memories of the kind and loving man she's spent almost fifteen years of her life with.

El took a deep breath and tried to center her emotions as the car she'd hired pulled up to an elegant building on Central Park West. She'd googled Neal Caffrey's address after he gave it to her, and she wasn't at all surprised to find that he lived in the south tower of the San Remo, one of the most exclusive buildings on one of the most exclusive streets in Manhattan.

A doorman opened the car door and escorted her into the lobby. Neal must have alerted them, because the desk clerk told her she should take the south elevator to the twenty-first floor.

Burke Premier Events' clientele were some of the wealthiest people in New York; she'd been in private homes with chandeliers that probably cost more than her house in Brooklyn – so it was pretty hard to impress her. But there was something awe-inspiring about the short journey from the lobby to the twenty-first floor – as if she was being transported into another world.

There wasn't even a hallway, the elevator opened right into Neal's apartment, and he was waiting for her with a smile on his face. The sense of unreality disappeared as he took her coat and welcomed her into his home.

As he escorted her into the living room, with its bank of windows overlooking Central Park, El couldn't stop herself from taking in the magnificent view.

"It is incredible, isn't it?" Neal was standing next to her, hands in his pockets. "When I first moved to New York, a friend of mine had let me stay in a small apartment she had on the fourth floor of her house. It had an incredible view, too – almost unreal – and since then, I've never been able to live anyplace without one."

Elizabeth could understand that. "When I moved to New York after college, I spent a lot of time wandering around the city and fantasizing about my dream home. At first, I thought I wanted a place on Gramercy, just so I could have a key to the park. And then I wanted to live by the Metropolitan – everything was so elegant there. Or on Columbus Avenue, near the Museum of Natural History."

"What, no loft in the Village?"

"Hell no – that's where I was living. Not a loft, but a cramped two-bedroom, one-bathroom fourth floor walk-up with four other girls. It was pretty awful." She laughed at the memory of those early, crazy days in New York City. "That's why I finally decided that my dream home would be an apartment in either the Dakota or the San Remo. With lots of tall ceilings and an incredible view."

Neal noted, "They say the Dakota's haunted." 

"I know, that's part of the attraction. But I'd take an apartment in the San Remo if I _had_ to." El made that sound like such a hardship and they both laughed.

"Can I offer you a drink? A glass of wine?"

"Certainly. Wine will be fine." She lingered at the window while Neal went over to the wet bar. He came back with two glasses of white wine. 

He handed her one. "How about a toast?"

"To what?"

"To new friends?"

El nodded. "Yes, to new friends."

The glasses clinked musically and El took a sip. There was a certain irony to the toast – as if Neal Caffrey was going to replace the friend she'd lost in Peter Burke. 

"I hope you like scallops."

She blinked at the non sequitur. "Yes?"

"Good, because I'm making them for dinner."

"Oh! Dinner – how foolish of me." She felt flustered and silly. "You wanted to talk about Mozzie's birthday party and thought we'd have a better time talking without getting interrupted at a restaurant."

Neal tried to put her at ease. "Don't be embarrassed. I can't tell you how many times I've walked into a room and completely forgotten why I did."

El thought it was so charming that he'd admitted to the same flaw, just to put her at ease.

"Do you want to join me in the kitchen and give me your ideas about the party?"

"Sounds perfect."

El supposed that the apartment's original kitchen had been small and dark, since the San Remo had been built in an age when people who could afford to live in the building had servants to take care of their every little need. But this space had been renovated – it was bright, open and modern, and not in an intimidating way. It had the patina of a well-loved and often-used space.

Neal gestured to the large island in the middle of the room. "Take a seat and talk to me."

She settled onto one of the tall chairs and took another sip of wine to steady her nerves. "Well, we really didn't talk about location – but from what you'd told me about Mozzie, I wanted to find a venue that celebrated some of his eccentricities."

"I hope that means you're planning on having the party at the psych ward in Bellevue. Mozzie might actually enjoy that."

It was a good thing that El had just put down her wine glass, because she almost choked.

"Sorry – when you said 'celebrate some of his eccentricities', I couldn't resist."

She wiped her eyes. "No problem."

"Anyway – what sort of place do you think might fit that rather daunting bill?"

"Have you ever heard of Oheka Castle?"

"Hmm, it sounds vaguely familiar. Or am I thinking of Osaka Castle in Japan?"

"Well, I hadn't considered a destination party, but I could add that to the mix if you'd like."

"No – let's keep this local." Neal went over to the fridge and started removing ingredients. "Don't mind me – I know that talking to my back is rude."

"That's okay – you're cooking."

"So, tell me about this place. Ikea Castle – sounds _very_ eccentric. But I have to tell you, Mozzie's a bit of a germaphobe, and if you're planning something with a huge ball pit, he may not want to participate. Although he might really enjoy a contest to put together a room full of furniture with just an Allen wrench and no instructions."

El swallowed another gurgle of laughter, "Not _Ikea_ Castle. _Oheka_ Castle – it's an old Gold Coast estate in Cold Spring Harbor. The original owner, Otto H. Kahn, was something of an eccentric, himself. He had resented that his robber baron peers wouldn't let him into their exclusive clubs because he was Jewish. So he wanted to build the biggest private home in New York on top of the tallest point on Long Island. When he couldn't buy the property he wanted, he had his hill built. And he put a fake French chateau on top of it."

"Wait – I think I've heard of this place. Wasn't it in the news a while back? Something about the owner getting shot in the head?"

"Yes, yes – Gary Melius. He bought the property about thirty years ago and had poured a fortune into restoring it. It got to the point that he couldn't afford to put any more money into it and sold it to a Japanese developer. There were all sorts of lawsuits. Gary eventually repurchased the estate about fifteen years ago and opened it up for weddings and private parties. About two years ago, someone tried to assassinate him on the property – but no one's been arrested. I think whoever did it used one of the old underground tunnels to escape."

"Secret tunnels, an unsolved assassination attempt? This sounds like the perfect place for Moz."

As Neal cooked, El continued to relay details about Oheka. She'd managed a number of weddings there so she had a lot of trivia at her fingertips.

Soon, the smell of white wine and garlic and shallots filled the kitchen and her stomach let out an indelicate rumble.

To her embarrassment, Neal heard and commented. "Nothing I like better than cooking for someone who's hungry."

"It smells delicious."

"If you want to head into the dining room, I'll be there in a few minutes."

El took her wineglass with her as she wandered back through the apartment – the dining room was just off of the main living room and shared the incredible view of the park. It was a clear night, with a full moon rising, and she was again drawn to the windows. 

Peter had proposed to her on a night like this, on a carriage ride through the park.

But El deliberately pushed the memory away. If she didn't, she'd likely break down and cry, and wouldn't _that_ be professional?

Thankfully, Neal came in with the starter and El sat down. As they ate, she continued to outline some ideas about the party. "If you don't think Oheka is good, I have a few other venues to suggest."

"I think this castle sounds perfect, but tell me about the alternatives."

"Well, if your budget allows, you can host a private party in some of the museums in New York."

"Yes, I did know that. I was at a fundraiser at the New York Historical Society last summer."

"The one hosted by Andrew Stansler?"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure that was the one. Had an ice bear for a centerpiece, right?"

El laughed and shook her head. "I did the planning for that party. That ice bear gave me more than a few sleepless nights. Andrew wanted it eight feet tall."

"It was big enough. And what a small world – you did an excellent job smoothing over that asshole's rough edges."

"Yeah, Andrew's not the most pleasant man to work for."

"So you want me to consider the New York Historical Society for Mozzie's party?"

"Actually, no – it's a bit too big for a birthday party. But the Frick is available and so is the Morgan Library. Although, technically, the events are supposed to be for corporate sponsors."

"Not a problem – Sundance Equity makes annual donations to both institutions. And the Metropolitan, the Whitney and the Museum of Modern Art. But I think the castle idea is the best. When do I have to commit?"

"If you want, I can make an appointment for us to go out to Cold Spring Harbor and look at the place. January is actually a good time for a party there, not too many weddings that month."

Neal nodded. "Then let's do it. I've got a number of things going on this week, but I should be available next Tuesday or Wednesday."

"I'll take care of it and let you know when we need to be there." El smiled and added, "I wish all my clients were so easy to please."

"Oh, I can be fussy if you want. We still have to pick colors for the napkins and the flowers and choose a menu, right?"

"That's true – but somehow, I don't think you're the kind of person who is going to sweat those details. I think you enjoy paying for others to do that."

Neal gave her an appreciative look. "That's really quite true. I'm far from helpless, but what's the point of asking for someone's expertise if I'm just going to insist that I know better."

The salad was delicious – the tomatoes on the perfect edge of ripeness, the mozzarella decadently creamy, the basil as fragrant as a fine perfume – a symphony of autumnal goodness. When she finished, she let out a small sigh. "I could have that every night, at least until the tomatoes are gone."

Neal offered gallantly, "We can skip the scallops and I'll bring you another salad."

"No, not after you've gone to all that trouble. And they do smell delicious."

"Well, then – let me get them for us. There's a bottle of Chardonnay breathing – would you mind pouring for us?"

Neal swept out of the dining room with their salad plates and Elizabeth did as he asked. This was perhaps the most unusual business dinner she ever had – it felt more like a first date. Or maybe a fifth date. And she was surprised that Neal didn't have someone serving, that he was taking care of everything himself. There was a grace to his actions, not practiced, but confident. She couldn't help but be reminded of the first time she'd dined at Peter's apartment. The food was terrible – overcooked pot roast, wine that had gone sour in the bottle and a boxed cake from Entenmann's that was as stale as the jokes in a Jay Leno monologue. He had been so adorably fumbling – apologizing for everything. Until she kissed him. And then the fumbling stopped and …

"Elizabeth?" Neal was holding two plates, each covered by a silver dome. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, yes – just fine."

Neal put the dish down in front of her and lifted the cloche with a touch of drama. There were three perfectly cooked diver scallops on a bed of creamy risotto, a far cry from the meal that Peter had made for her. "It looks too beautiful to eat."

"Thank you and you may sit here all night and admire it."

El had to laugh – there was something about Neal Caffrey's sense of humor that appealed to her. Peter had been so intense when they'd first started dating, so careful of her feelings, so damned scared that he'd say the wrong thing and send her running. Then she reminded herself that this _wasn't_ a date and Neal Caffrey, with his astonishing good looks and delightful sense of humor, was simply a client.

Of course, she started eating and Neal followed suit. The conversation centered on the birthday party and unlike their first meeting, Neal was much more forthcoming about his friend and business partner.

"So, let me get this straight – Moz was one of your professors at MIT, but you actually met him when he was running a 'Find the Lady' game in Cambridge?"

"Yup. He claimed he was doing an experiment on the statistical gullibility of high IQ members of Generation X, but I suspect he just enjoyed fleecing the rich snots out of their money."

"How much did you take him for?"

Neal grinned and El almost wanted to fan herself as the full force of his smile hit her. "Five grand, and he was pissed. But appreciative of my talents." Neal shook his head. "It's hard to believe that was almost twenty-five years ago. We've seen some strange times together."

"Can you share?"

"Let's just say that I've had an interesting time convincing him we could make more money legitimately than as con artists."

"I can't wait to meet the birthday boy."

Dinner consumed, Neal suggested they relax in the living room. He had a photo album he wanted to show her. "Although some of his get-ups might send you running for the hills."

"I doubt it. You haven't met Bitsy Cunningham."

"Bitsy? A rather spry octogenarian with an endless fascination for male ass and fingers that pinch harder than binder clips?"

"Okay, you _have_ met Bitsy. She hired me to arrange her granddaughter's bachelorette party last year and insisted on personally auditioning the male strippers. Did you know that there's an annual exotic dancer convention in Myrtle Beach? I thought I was going to have to bail her out of jail for molesting some guy in a gold lame banana hammock."

Neal struggled to contain his laughter. "I don't know what's more appalling, that there's really a convention for male strippers or that you had problems controlling an eighty-two year-old society grand dame at that convention."

In the living room, Neal retrieved the promised photo album. Mozzie was definitely an eccentric, and she couldn't help but comment at the man's _interesting_ taste in hair styles. 

"Those are all wigs. Moz was almost completely bald by the time he was twenty-five. You don't want to know what it took to convince him to get rid of the toupees."

As they turned the pages together, Neal sharing clever anecdotes, El stated the obvious, "You love him."

"He's the brother I never had. And he pulled me through some very difficult times. We haven't always seen eye-to-eye about everything, and there are times when I could cheerfully strangle him, but there is nothing I wouldn't do to make him happy."

"Then we'll give him a night he'll never want to forget."

"I am supremely confident that you will." Neal left her to flip through the album while he retrieved dessert.

When Neal came back, El looked at the perfectly composed tiramisu and wondered how in the hell he managed to create that.

Neal must have read the expression on her face. "This, I ordered in. I can't do pastry."

"Well, that's a relief!"

The dessert was delicious, but El declined the espresso. "I probably won't sleep tonight if I drink that."

"You do know that there's no more caffeine in a cup of espresso than there is in a cup of brewed coffee, and probably less if it's made with an Italian roast."

El nodded, "Of course, but it's still caffeine and it will still keep me awake."

"Then what can I get you?"

She tapped the base of her wine glass, "This will be fine."

Like the rest of the meal, the dessert was delicious. Sated and relaxing on the surprisingly comfortable couch, El wondered if maybe she shouldn't have refused the coffee. How many nights had she and Peter taken home dessert from _Donatella's_ and had coffee at home? Then retreated to the bedroom to fuck like bunnies. She sighed and reminded herself that that wasn't her life anymore.

"Such a sad sound. Is everything all right?"

El blinked, she'd lost herself for a moment. "I guess."

"You want to talk about it? We're friends, right? You can tell me anything."

Neal's words so strongly echoed her own last words to Peter, and all the pain, all the confusion Peter's bitter speech had brought came roaring back. 

She burst into tears.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

For a few seconds, Neal stared at the sobbing woman sitting next to him and felt utterly helpless. Then his sense of empathy kicked in and he gently pulled her into his arms, murmuring soothing words. He had no idea what he said or did to make Elizabeth cry, but he'd do what he could to fix it.

The storm passed quickly and Elizabeth struggled, so he let go.

"I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me." 

Neal just handed her his handkerchief. "Want to talk about it?"

Elizabeth wiped her eyes and gave him a bitter smile. "Okay, I lied. I do know what happened, and it's probably best if I go now. If you want to hire another event planner, I'll understand." She stood up, but Neal grabbed her hand and pulled her back down.

"Tell me."

She sighed and shook her head. "It was what you said – about being friends. About being able to tell you anything."

"Okay – maybe I came on a little strong. But I was just so comfortable – it felt like we'd known each other for years."

"No – it's not that. It was the words."

Now Neal was utterly confused.

"I'm not making sense. It really is probably best if I go."

"No, actually it isn't. You don't have to tell me, but you're distraught and I can't – in good conscience – let you go before I know that you're okay."

Elizabeth didn't say anything, she just looked down. "You'll probably think I'm crazy."

"Hey, after all I've told you about Mozzie, do you think some tears are going to scare me off?"

That made Elizabeth smile, just a little. 

"Now, tell me – what's going on?"

She sighed and frowned. "It's about my ex." 

"He's giving you trouble?"

"Oh, no – not in the least. Or maybe not the way you think. He's a good man."

"Forgive me if I'm skeptical, but he divorced you and he's made you cry. How good can he be?"

"You're wrong. I divorced him."

"Ah – that will teach me to assume."

"Wasn't it Oscar Wilde who said, 'Never assume'?"

Neal completed the quote, "'You make an ass out of you and me.' But you'll have to forgive me, it just seemed the obvious conclusion."

"Yeah, I guess it did. And I guess you'll want the whole story." 

She sat there, looking so sad that Neal's heart broke, just a little. If there was anyone who needed a friend, at this moment, it was Elizabeth Mitchell. "If you want to tell me." He took her hand, squeezing it gently.

She nodded. "Maybe it'll help. I haven't been able to talk about this to anyone."

Despite Elizabeth's assertions that her ex-husband was a "good man", Neal had to wonder at what terrible things he had done to her.

"My husband expected perfection."

Neal immediately built a picture of a rigidly controlling man, who browbeat this intelligent, vibrant woman over the least little thing. But then Elizabeth destroyed that expectation.

"He expected perfection from himself, not from me. He worked so hard to be the perfect husband; he was constantly terrified of disappointing me. There was nothing I could mention that I wanted, or thought I wanted, or expressed a preference for, that he didn't make happen. If I said I liked having fresh flowers in the house, he arranged for daily deliveries of the most gorgeous bouquets. If I said something about liking the opera, he got season tickets for us, despite the fact that he hated opera. When I started my business, it was all he could do to get clients for me. And when I said I wanted to make it a success on my own, he just looked so hurt."

Neal didn't say anything, but he thought he understood.

"I know it sounds crazy. I was married to a wealthy, handsome, loving man who would lay the world at my feet. And I almost hated him for that."

"You wanted to stand on your own; you wanted to earn your own success."

"Yes. Is that so strange?"

"Not at all."

"But it was more than that. He was so … insecure about _us_. As if he felt that if he did something wrong, I'd leave." She shook her head. "And in the end, that's exactly what happened."

"Were you married long?"

"Almost fifteen years. We had a good marriage for most of that time, but over the last few years, I felt myself resenting him, resenting all of the expectations, his need to be perfect. I felt like I was living in a reality show where everything had to be just right. I guess, in the end, I just resented being married. My husband – my _ex_ -husband – did nothing wrong. I just wanted more than he could give me."

Neal formed another image of Elizabeth's ex – a nebbishy, needy little man whose every actions stifled her.

"But I so hoped we could remain friends." Elizabeth's voice turned wobbly, as tears threatened again.

"You wanted to remain friends?"

She sniffled and wiped her nose with his handkerchief. "Yes, and I thought we were. He didn't fight with me over the divorce; he would have given me half of everything or more. In fact, the only argument we had was when he went behind my back, paid off the mortgage on our house in Brooklyn and took his name off of the deed."

"What a rotten thing to do." Neal didn't know what else to say.

Elizabeth chuckled. "Yeah, isn't it? And anyway, we agreed that we'd get together for dinner at least once a month."

"In keeping with your plan to remain friends?"

She nodded. "That's why I couldn't have dinner with you on Friday. And that's when it all went wrong."

"What happened?"

"I was teasing him a little. He'd asked me if I was dating anyone, and then I asked him the same question. He seemed appalled – as if seeing someone was an unforgivable sin."

Neal asked, because it seemed appropriate, "Maybe he's not over you?"

"Probably – but he didn't even want to entertain the idea of a casual relationship. Which was so strange, because we never had any trouble in bed. There was nothing either of us wasn’t willing to try. He was always very sexual."

Neal wasn't sure what response was required, so he just said, "Okay."

Elizabeth gave him a sheepish grin. "It seems I'm oversharing again."

"It's all right. So what happened at dinner?"

"Well, he seemed so down – but it was more than that. Like he was sick. So I asked him what was wrong and he said nothing, but I couldn't just leave it. So I said pretty much what you'd just said to me – that we're friends and that he could tell me anything."

She paused for a moment and took a deep breath, as if to steel herself against the pain the next part of her story would bring. "That's when he told me that we were simply exes. That we weren't friends and he was tired of pretending that we were."

Elizabeth's words stirred the echo of an old and terrible memory, and Neal felt the beginnings of a flop sweat gather between his shoulder blades.

Elizabeth didn't seem to notice and continued talking. "He looked at me like I was nothing, threw some money on the table and left. I guess I was naive to think that we could remain friends. I hurt him very badly when I asked for the divorce, maybe this is what I deserve."

Neal found the strength to put away his own pain – after all, he'd been doing it for a quarter of a century – and told Elizabeth, "No, you don't deserve to be hurt. Life isn't about tit-for-tat."

She twisted his handkerchief in her hands. "No, it's not, but I can't help feeling guilty for the pain I caused him."

Neal had known his share of people who had suffered through terrible relationships but couldn't bring themselves to end the pain. Moz was one of them – he still loved his wife – but they could only stand to be in each other's company for a few weeks at a time before they happily returned to their separate lives. "Let me ask you this, do you still want to be married?"

"No." Elizabeth's answer was quick and unequivocal.

"Then I think maybe your ex is right. Maybe it's time to move on and let him build his own life without you."

She nodded. "I think you're right. He just looked so unwell, so unhappy. I knew I caused that unhappiness."

"Maybe seeing you all the time just kept reminding him of what he no longer had."

"And I just kept pushing that knife deeper and deeper. He's such a good man; he probably resented me and these dinners but didn't want to say anything. It was like I was playing with him, toying with his emotions. Like you said, I was making sure I just kept reminding him of everything he'd lost. I was so selfish."

Neal wondered when he'd gotten a degree in psychotherapy, because he seemed to keep saying the right thing. "Don't beat yourself up. Your ex might have been cruel, but maybe it served its purpose."

"Yeah, what's the expression, 'cruel to be kind'?"

He nodded. "And I think you also might be feeling a bit of seller's remorse. You didn't want to stay, but you probably can't help wondering what would have happened if you did."

Elizabeth sighed. "No, I think I know what would have happened. I would have become bitter and overbearing and we both would have been utterly miserable."

"So maybe it's better that only one of you is miserable. Give it some time – maybe when your ex finds his footing, you can be friends again."

"You're right. How come you're so good at this?"

Neal tried to fob her off with the easy answer, "I've always been good at reading people. I made my first fortune playing poker."

When she gave him a look that called him on the bullshit, Neal gave her a slight smile. "Okay. Someone I cared about – I loved – did something similar to me. We'd been together for three years – not exclusive, at least on his part. But I really fell for him. We'd just finished our degrees and had made plans on taking a place together when he started work in New York. Then one morning he told me that he was going to be doing something different with his life, and that we really weren't friends. All we'd been were fuck-buddies and now he wanted to have his own life."

"That's awful."

Neal shrugged, as if to deny the pain he still felt. "I think he wanted to pretend that he wasn't bisexual. He was going to be working in a field where even the slightest hint of homosexuality could spell career death, so he needed to convince the world that he was completely, one-hundred percent straight. I don't blame him for that, for not wanting to lead a double-life."

"But he didn't have to be such a bastard to you, did he?" Elizabeth took his hand to give him comfort, ironically mirroring his earlier gesture. "We're quite the pair, aren't we?"

"Yeah, we are." 

"I'm just relieved you don't think I'm a nutcase." 

"Far from it. You're a beautiful human being, Elizabeth Mitchell, and I'm very glad to have met you." Neal reached out and touched her cheek. 

He enjoyed feeling her smile and briefly wondered what it would be like to kiss this woman – it had been a very long time since he'd done that. But as quickly as the thought formed, Neal realized it would be a mistake. He'd long since come to terms with the knowledge that women weren't for him – not romantically, not sexually. Besides, he'd rather have her as a friend and if there was one thing that Peter had taught him, real friends were rare and far too valuable to be discarded like old newspaper.

"Thank you." She smiled and let out a little sigh. "I think I'm okay, now."

"You sure?"

She nodded. "Yeah, and I think I should get home before I commit another disaster."

Neal wanted to disagree, but he understood the need to make a graceful exit. "Let me get a car for you." He didn't wait for Elizabeth to demur; he just called down to the front desk and asked them to arrange for a limo.

Of course, she argued with him, "You didn't need to do that, I have an Uber account."

Neal grimaced. "Don't get me started on them. I'd sooner take a rickshaw on the Cross-Bronx than get into an Uber car."

"I'm surprised, being in the venture capital business, I thought you'd be swooning over Uber. And Lyft."

"Nope. I don't believe that breaking the law and taking full page ads out in the New York Times justifying it as accommodating a market is a sustainable business model."

"You've never skirted regulations? You've never broken the rules?" 

Neal didn't blame her skepticism – he was a Wall Street player and bending the rules came with the job description. "There was a time when I was little better than a con man, but I didn't …" He blinked as Elizabeth smiled. "You're winding me up."

"Yeah."

"I didn't think I was that easy to read."

"You're not easy to read at all – it was just a shot in the dark."

"And you hit the mark."

"A bull's eye, I think."

"Anyone ever tell you that you're a dangerous woman, Elizabeth Mitchell?"

"No, but I kind of like that."

The phone rang, and Neal answered. It was the front desk, telling him that the car was waiting. "Shall I come down with you?" He helped her into her coat and made sure she had her bag.

"No, it's okay – I think I can make it to the lobby without committing any acts of mayhem. Even though I'm a dangerous woman."

Neal laughed. God, he liked this woman.

Elizabeth left, promising that she'd be in touch about the plans to go out to Long Island and see the "castle". Neal went back to the living room, struck by a strong wave of melancholy. The dessert dishes were still on the table, a mocking reminder that no one but him ever stayed here. 

He knew it really didn't have to be like this. Maybe he could try harder to be less closed off, less wary, less compartmentalized. Matthew might have been out for a sugar daddy to keep him in the style he wanted to become accustomed to, but he wasn't stupid.

Maybe he should try a dating service. That was one step from paying for escorts. Hell, why not go all the way and hire a matchmaker? After all, he knew what he wanted in a man. Someone his age – maybe a year or two older, but nothing more and certainly nothing less. Someone who was successful – and Neal was quick to make the mental qualification that success didn't have to mean wealth. He'd be happy with someone who was happy with themselves. Someone who was comfortable in their own skin. He'd be kind, with a good sense of humor. He'd appreciate art and fine food, but wouldn't be a fuss-budget. He would be able to hold his own against anyone. An attractive package wasn't essential but there was nothing wrong with dark eyes, a good mouth, a strong face. He didn't want a fitness model, but long legs and a toned physique wouldn't hurt, either. 

_And maybe a mole at the base of his throat…_

And then that train of thought derailed into a catastrophic wreck. His ideal mate was Peter Burke. Or the man he imagined the twenty-five year-old Peter Burke had become, if he hadn't turned into such a cruel and selfish bastard.

Neal shook his head at his own folly. Maybe his life was better this way. He might be alone, but he'd never be disappointed.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	4. Chapter 4

Diana Berrigan had had reservations about taking a job with Sundance Equity. It wasn't that she didn't want to leave the FBI, but going to work for a financial firm that operated under the regulatory radar didn't seem quite right. Yet, Peter Burke, her mentor and a man whose judgment she trusted without question, told her that this might be the perfect opportunity for her. She'd be in a strategic position in a small, highly successful firm, and would be able to keep the company – and its principals – on the straight and narrow. 

Peter had a good point – there were only about a dozen full-time employees with the company and most of the work was done by the firm's two owners. When she'd interviewed with Theodore Winters, a strange little man who wouldn't be out of place in a support group for paranoid conspiracy theorists – she'd made it clear that she wasn't going to be too interested in covering up any illegal activities. Or cleaning up any legal messes.

Winters had stared at her. At least she thought he had; the overhead fluorescent lighting had cast a glare that made it impossible to see his eyes through his glasses. Diana had liked to think of herself as a pretty good interrogator, but this guy was doing an excellent job of making her sweat. Finally, he just said, "That's fine. We have lawyers to take care of that."

"So what do you need me for? The job's for a troubleshooter."

"My partner thinks we need someone to keep us on the straight and narrow."

Diana blinked – those were the exact words that Peter had used.

Winters continued, "We get enthusiastic and sometimes our enthusiasm gets in the way of the niceties of doing business. Your job would be to rein us in when that happens."

That was something Diana thought she could do very well.

Winters had asked her a few more questions and then came the one she'd been dreading. "Why are you looking to leave the FBI? Your resume has 'lifer' written all over it."

Diana had thought long and hard about this question and decided that she had to be honest. "My wife left me when I was six months pregnant. While the Bureau's been able to accommodate my needs as a single parent, I'm still a field agent. It hasn't been an easy decision to make, but I can't keep putting myself in harm's way."

"I thought that FBI agents were mostly pencil pushers and desk jockeys these days."

Diana bit back a rather nasty reply. She did want this job, after all. "You'd be surprised at how dangerous the job gets, especially in Antiterrorism."

"Ever kill anyone?"

"Not yet, but there's still time."

"As long as you don't start with me."

Diana had chuckled and Winters' lips twitched, but that was it. She'd had the feeling this man wasn't really the laugh out loud type.

He then surprised her. "You'll do. When can you start?"

"Don't I have to interview with your partner?"

"Nah. Neal trusts my judgment."

That was two years ago, and while there had been many days when she'd wanted to tear out her hair at the collective cluelessness of Theodore "Mozart" Winters and Neal Caffrey, by and large, she'd found the work fulfilling – far more than she ever expected from a civilian job.

Today was one of those days. She was going to bring her past and her present together in a very satisfying way – introducing Mozzie and Neal to Peter Burke. Or at least Peter's firm. She'd only spoken with his admin on Monday, who couldn't confirm that Peter would be available to attend the meeting. Peter had texted her that evening, saying that he was looking forward to seeing her.

She felt the same way – it had been over a year since she'd seen him and their lines of communication had been limited to brief texts. They'd both cancelled out on dinner plans more than once, and for some reason, never rescheduled.

The firm had rolled out the red carpet for them. Instead of a box of Starbucks' over-brewed coffee, there was an honest-to-goodness _Caffè Florian_ -trained barista manning an authentic hand-made Italian espresso machine. It wouldn't have surprised her that the brightly colored macarons had been flown in from _Maison Pierre Hermé Paris_ that morning. Nothing but the best for a client that could be worth at least a million dollars in annual billings.

Diana tried not to smile when Mozzie was difficult and demanded tea. The barista didn't blink and offered her boss a rather extensive menu. Moz probably asked for something vile and then proceeded to pour half a carafe of milk into it. Neal – coffee snob that he was – did appreciate what was on offer, and was chatting with the barista about Venice when Peter, another partner and a few associates came into the conference room.

She went to say hello and was immediately struck by how terrible Peter looked. He'd lost so much weight that his cuffs of his suit were hanging over his fingertips. His skin was practically gray and his eyes were bloodshot. Before she could stop herself, she said, "You look like crap."

"Good to see you, too, Di."

Appalled at how bad her old friend looked, she demanded, "How did Elizabeth let you out of the house when you're so sick?" Peter turned even paler, and the associate standing behind him flushed bright red and bit her lip. Peter took her arm and guided her over to the corner. She asked, "What's going on?"

"El and I split, we've been divorced for about six months. That's all."

Diana was shocked. "That's all? You two were perfect together."

Peter growled, "Sometimes perfection isn't what it's cracked up to be. That's why she left."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Peter shrugged. "It's not something one announces out of the blue, in a text message. I figured I'd tell you when we got a chance to catch up with each other. Just didn't expect it would be this long."

Diana could understand why Peter looked like hell. Her separation and divorce from Christie still hurt and had she not been six months pregnant when her wife walked out, she might have just stopped taking care of herself, too. But this wasn't the time or place to go into such deep, personal details. "Okay, we'll talk later; let me introduce you to my bosses."

Moz was closest and Diana hoped he'd be on his best behavior. But her hopes were in vain. He wasn't, calling Peter "Suit" in that too-familiar antagonistic tone.

Peter, though, gave as good as he got, and retorted, "Thought you'd be taller."

Moz accepted the insult and conceded the battle with a wry smile. "So did I."

Diana left the two men to talk – in more congenial tones – and went to get Neal, who was now telling one of Peter's associates about the time he'd played Pai-Gow poker with some underworld hoodlum in Chinatown and the club had been raided by the NYPD. The story still had the power to make Diana wince.

"Neal, come meet my former boss." As she turned back towards Peter and Mozzie, she felt Neal stiffen. When she looked at him, he seemed completely stunned. But the expression was so fleeting, Diana thought she might have imagined it. When she made the introduction, Neal was smiling.

What she didn't imagine was the surprise on Peter's face.

But she had no time to ask questions. One of Peter's partners came over and more introductions were made, and everyone moved to the conference table for the inevitable presentation about the firm's capabilities. Peter, however, wasn't the one who spoke, and after a few minutes, he excused himself and left the room.

Mozzie was engaged in a rather spirited debate about the value of off-shoring assets with the woman giving the presentation and didn't pay attention to Peter's departure. Neal, although he looked like he was involved in the discussion, seemed at odds with himself.

Diana tried to focus on the presentation, but she couldn't shake the feeling she'd missed something vital, something that had nothing to do with mergers and acquisitions and everything to do with her current and her former boss.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter barely made it back to his office and his private washroom, before the nausea overtook him. Even though he hadn't eaten, he retched until he almost passed out.

He'd been stupid not to take the Compazine, but he hadn't wanted to spend another day in a thick fog, struggling to stay conscious. The side-effects of his first chemo session had been as bad as he'd been warned, but he hated the thought of giving into the illness. Staying at home and wallowing seemed like he was getting one step closer to giving into the inevitable.

Peter leaned against the commode and the cold porcelain felt good against his skin, but he couldn’t sit on the bathroom floor forever. It took some effort to get to his feet, and when he went to clean up, he saw – to his embarrassment – that he'd gotten vomit on his shirt and tie. As he stripped, the sour stench of his body odor threatened to send him heaving back over the toilet bowl. But he managed to keep control and washed himself. Fresh attire helped, as did some mouthwash, and he felt almost human by the time he left the washroom.

One of his partners, Landon Shepard, was in his office, waiting for him. Her expression was one of concern, but her body language screamed irritation. "Are you okay?"

Peter sat down at his desk and gestured for Landon to take a seat. "I've been better."

"Then why the hell are you here? Shouldn't you be home, resting?"

"The referral came from Diana Berrigan. She called me – I wanted to be here."

"A valid point, except that disappearing in the middle of a presentation doesn't really send the right message, Peter."

He gave Landon a tight smile. "Nor does vomiting all over the conference table."

"True." Landon sighed. "If Sundance signs with us, they will be your client of record. Your connection with their firm ensures that."

"I know, I know." Peter scrubbed at his face. "I just wanted to be here, though."

"And now you can go home."

"I can make it through the day, Landon."

She shook her head, clearly disgusted with him. "What do you think is going to happen if you take sick leave? You're a senior partner in this firm; you bring in a huge chunk of revenue every year. Your name should be on the door if you'd let us put it there. No one is going to think less of you for taking time off because you're sick."

Peter didn't say anything. He knew she was right.

"You have cancer, damn it."

 _Cancer._ He wanted to cover his ears. He wanted to deny that one horrible word.

"Peter, you need to take care of yourself."

"I know that, and I am."

Landon raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Taking care of yourself? You could have fooled me." She picked up some papers and handed them to him. "This is your application for short-term leave and disability. I've had it filled out for you, just sign it and go home."

Now Peter was annoyed. "That's really pushing it. I think I know what I need to do, and taking a few months off like some helpless baby isn't it."

Landon shook her head in disgust. "For a smart man, you really are quite an idiot. If I have to take this to the partners' committee, it's not going to go your way."

Peter knew that he could be forced to take the time. "Let's see how I feel next week. I probably pushed it today, but I should be better by Monday."

"What does your doctor say?"

"That the first week after chemo is the roughest."

"And yet you're here. Letting yourself get run down. Even more run down – even the most oblivious of us could see what the radiation treatments are doing to you."

"Landon, I appreciate that you care – but I need to make my own decisions regarding my health."

"You need to make the right decisions, Peter. Which you aren't."

"It's my life. My body."

"And now you sound like my daughter who wants to get a tattoo of Justin Bieber on her shoulder."

"That comparison is ridiculous."

"No, it's not. But in her defense, she's thirteen years old and her taste in musical idols can be forgiven. You, on the other hand, are fifty, and until recently, one of the smartest, savviest people I know." Landon stood and gave him a hard look. "Don't be such a stubborn jackass. Go home, rest, take care of yourself." She didn't wait for his answer and left.

Peter sat there, unwilling – unable – to accept Landon's advice. If he left the office, if he went home, he'd be alone. There would be nothing to distract him from the fact that Neal Caffrey was back in his life.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

When they left the meeting and were on the street, waiting for their car, Moz asked Neal, "So, what do you think?" 

Neal stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "They seem to know their stuff." That was pretty much all he could offer. His brain kept circling around the fact that Peter Burke was somehow back in his life.

"They certainly do – and Landon has some interesting ideas about off-shoring IP."

"Moz – you know how I feel about off-shoring. We're not in the rape and pillage business. We don't strip assets and leave companies barren. We're supposed to be responsible investors."

Moz glared at him. "Sometimes, I wish you were more ethically challenged."

"You know, I remember a time when you would have washed my mouth out with soap if I suggested a scheme that would end up hurting the little guys. You were the one who taught me right from wrong in this business."

Moz gave him another stink-eye. "It would also help if you had a less convenient memory."

Neal chuckled. "Come on, Moz. You know I'm right. We always try to do the right thing. We may be in the money business, but that doesn't make us soulless assholes."

Moz shrugged, not at all happy to be reminded of his own principles. "You're right, you're right."

Neal draped an arm around his friend's shoulder and pressed a kiss against his forehead. "We're the good guys, remember?"

"Feh – get off me." Moz gave him a gentle shove. "Just for that, I'm taking the car and heading out for the rest of the day. You two can hoof it back to the office."

Neal chuckled as Moz got into the car that just pulled up. He'd mentioned that Gina was back from California, and Neal was certain that his partner was taking off for some afternoon delight.

It was a little after four and he turned to Diana. "Feel like a drink? It's a little late to head back to the office. Or you can take off early and get home to Theo." 

"No, a drink sounds good. Theo's nanny's on until seven on Wednesdays, and I wouldn't mind some adult company this evening."

Neal grinned, "I'm flattered! You finally consider me an adult."

Diana glared back at him. "For the moment yes, but if you keep telling that story about getting caught in a raid in a Chinatown gambling den, I'm going to have to ground you."

"But it's a good story."

"No, Neal – it isn't."

They bantered a bit and headed over to his favorite bistro – the same one where he'd met Elizabeth Mitchell just a week ago. They were escorted to his favorite table – the one that was perfect for people watching – and the same waiter, the one who'd flirted with him, came to take their orders. 

Diana asked for a vodka and tonic and Neal ordered a glass of chardonnay. Once the waiter left, Neal made the request that had been on the tip of his tongue since they left the meeting. "Tell me about Peter Burke."

"Why? What do you want to know?"

"I thought it was kind of strange that he barely attended the presentation, and didn't say a word."

She nodded. "That was strange. When I worked for him, Peter was always the charismatic one – the one you wanted at the head of the table."

Neal had to add, "He didn't look like a well man." He knew that was an understatement.

"Yeah, I agree. We'd kind of lost touch over the last year or so, so I'm not sure what's going on."

"He didn't say anything to you before the meeting started?" Neal might have engaged the barista in conversation but almost all his attention was on Peter, and then on Diana's interaction with him. Peter had told her something. Neal had to wonder where her loyalties were, if she'd share the contents of that conversation with him.

Apparently, with him and not with her former boss. "He told me he got a divorce; that his wife left him." She shook her head. "Of all the couples – I still find it hard to believe. They had such a good marriage."

The waiter delivered their drinks and Neal was grateful for the interruption. "That's why he looks like death warmed over?" He had a feeling he knew just who Peter Burke had been married to. And Diana confirmed it.

"Maybe. Probably. Peter and Elizabeth were so close, he loved her so much. There was nothing he wouldn't do for her. And I always thought that she felt the same way about him. They were perfect together." Diana sipped her drink. "But I guess perfection is not what it's cracked up to be." Then she let out a short and bitter laugh. "And that's almost exactly what Peter told me."

"So, you think the divorce hit him hard?"

"I guess. I can't imagine what else it could be. Unless he's really sick." Diana gave him a curious look. "You seem awfully interested in his personal life."

"Well, if he's going to be providing financial advice to the firm, I need to know that he's dependable. That he's not going to push everything off onto a junior associate and disappear. Or worse."

"He wouldn't do that!" Diana's outrage was palpable. "Peter Burke is the most conscientious man I've ever met."

"But if he's sick – "

"We're hiring a firm, not just a single advisor."

"And the more people who know about our business, the more chances for leaks." Neal wasn't sure why he was intent on pushing Diana's buttons.

Except that she gave as good as she got. "I've got two words for you – 'Terrence Pratt'. He had sole control over our account at Whitcomb & White and look what happened."

Neal conceded the point, "True."

"Peter's a good man. When he left the FBI for Shepard and Franklin, he'd vetted them thoroughly. He'd said that he hadn't spent half a decade chasing terrorists through their bank accounts to go work for a company that committed financial terrorism."

Neal stared at Diana over the rim of his glass, not that he was ever able to intimidate her with a look. "I'm trusting you on this. Moz is, apparently, sold on the firm."

"You had to have formed an opinion."

"I thought Landon Shepard was smart, slick, and eager for our business. But the only reason we're considering Shepard and Franklin is because of your connection to Peter Burke, who didn't seem all that interested in courting Sundance Equity." Neal wondered where his common sense had disappeared to. If he kept pushing this button, Diana was going to see that he had more than a business interest in Peter Burke.

"I can understand your reservations. I'm worried about Peter, too – for personal reasons."

Neal nodded in understanding, but he kept a slightly skeptical expression on his face.

Which worked just as he'd hoped.

Diana tried to mollify him. "Look, let me call Peter and set up a private meeting between the two of you. Spend an hour with him – he'll answer all of your questions and I'm sure that you'll realize that he's worth your trust."

 _Bingo_.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

By Friday, Peter felt like he was moving through a wall of sludge. His treatment schedule was grueling; he'd had only a three-day respite from the radiation therapy after his chemo and he was back to getting zapped every morning. His nausea had abated slightly and he didn't feel the need to hurl every ten minutes. Just once an hour, now. But the exhaustion was getting worse and he felt himself getting weaker every day.

Landon was right, he didn't belong at the office. He needed to be in bed, sleeping, conserving what little strength he had. His oncologist had told him that by the third chemo session, he'd need to be hospitalized – which was something he hadn't shared with Landon. But that was at least a month away.

Except that most days, he wondered if he was going to make it to that point.

"Mr. Burke?" His assistant, Blake, was at the door, a file in hand. "I have the research you asked for."

It was almost too great an effort to reach out and take what Blake was handing him.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Maybe someday, that would be true.

Blake, a very earnest young man, didn't leave. Instead, he closed the door and sat down. "I don't think you're all right. I think you're really sick."

Peter tried to glare at him, but it didn't have the effect he was hoping for. Once, he'd have been able to make young professionals like Blake pee in their pants with just a look. 

His assistant remained uncowed. "I have ears as well as eyes and I've heard you losing your cookies every day – a couple of times a day."

"I'm sorry about that." It seemed like such a lame thing to say.

"Nothing to be sorry about – but everyone's worried about you. You've been looking like you've been really sick for a long time, but it's gotten really bad this week."

Peter rested his face in his hand. Of course, he'd naively assumed that no one would notice. Which was stupid, since he barely recognized himself in a mirror.

"It's bad, isn't it?" Blake asked, his voice soft.

Peter nodded. Blake was a good guy and he deserved the truth. "Cancer." The word tasted foul in his mouth.

"I – I had hoped it wasn't that."

"You figured it out?"

"My dad had lung cancer and well…" Blake's voice trailed off.

"He didn't make it?"

Blake shook his head. "They didn't find it until it was too late. My dad was a fighter and insisted on doing everything possible – radiation and chemo and a couple of experimental treatments, too. You have the same look as he did in the early days of his treatment. In the end, though, it didn't make a difference." Blake grimaced as he said that. "But I don't think that's what you wanted to hear."

Peter hated the pity in the other man's voice, but he was grateful that Blake didn't ask about prognosis or even what type of cancer he had. "The other partners know – I had to tell them, but no one else knows. I suspect, though, that word will get out soon enough."

"Not from me!" 

"No, of course not. But billing paperwork from the doctors gets sent to benefits management, and people do talk, even when they're not supposed to. It's inevitable."

"What can I do?"

"At this point, nothing more than what you've been doing. Holding down the fort here, making sure that clients get serviced, managing my calendar. I don't really think I'm going to be in the office much in the foreseeable future."

"All right, and if there's anything you want me to handle – like personal stuff – I'll be happy to do that, too. Arranging for groceries, cleaning, medical appointments. If you want to work from home, I'll be happy to bring you any files you need. You can trust me."

Peter smiled, warmed by Blake's concern. "Thank you – right now, I'm okay but if I need anything, I'll let you know."

Blake nodded. "Okay – I better get back to my desk." He got up to leave, but stopped. "I almost forgot to tell you – Diana Berrigan called. She wants to set up an appointment for you to have some facetime with Neal Caffrey, from Sundance Equity. The same guy you had me do that research on." He tilted his head toward the file on Peter's desk. "What do you want me to tell her?"

 _And my chickens are coming home to roost._ "I'll call her back."

Blake got stubborn. "You pay me to handle things. Let me handle them."

"In other cases, yes. But Diana's an old friend, and I owe her a call, anyway."

"Okay." Before Blake shut the door behind him, he added, "I'm always available – anytime. Just ask."

Peter wasn't sure what he did to earn such loyalty. He set that question aside and stared at the folder on his desk. Blake had labeled it "Confidential Client Information" and there were instructions on the top of the folder to destroy it within ten business days – the usual precautions for these types of reports. 

The folder wasn't particularly thick, which was a relief. More data on a client usually meant bad news – like legal proceedings and criminal charges. Blake was not just an administrative assistant; he was a highly skilled researcher who'd spent a few years in an intelligence service. He could find out everything about anyone.

Over the years, he'd thought about looking up information about Neal. It wouldn't have taken much to set up a search; he had Neal's birthday and even knew his social security number. But as many times as he'd started, he'd always stopped himself. When he was married, it seemed the height of disloyalty – looking up an old lover. This last year, when he didn't have that excuse anymore, he couldn't bring himself to take that step. Why disturb ghosts from the past? What could it bring him but grief?

Now, though, he had every reason to know what Neal had been doing for the last twenty-five years and he opened the file before he could talk himself out of it.

Before he'd so brutally cut Neal from his life, back when they'd planned on taking a place together in New York, Neal had received offers from a number of Wall Street firms for consulting positions. That had made sense, since Neal's field of specialty was statistics and probability theory, and he'd been touted as the next John Nash. Neal had turned down all of the offers, insisting that he wanted to take a year or two off. He'd said that he felt like he was burning out. He'd planned on being a gentleman of leisure, spending his time traveling and absorbing everything on the New York cultural scene.

But according to the data that Blake assembled, Neal had never left Cambridge. A few days after he'd driven away from the house on Sidney Street, he'd applied for a post-Doctoral fellowship at MIT and spent the next two years working with Theodore Winters – another genius – the man who was his partner at Sundance Equity. 

There was a scant page of notes about Winters and a comment from Blake – _Need your authorization to do some really deep digging. As far as I can find, Theodore "Mozart" Winters doesn't exist before 1983._

Peter chuckled. Maybe he'd authorize that research, just for the hell of it.

The rest of the data was fairly bland – no skeletons in the closet. Neal and Winters had left MIT and founded a small hedge fund. They'd done well until the recession in the mid-nineties, but a year later, they'd regrouped and formed Sundance Equity, focusing on rescuing and rebuilding closely held tech firms. 

The company's list of successes was impressive, but that wasn't the information that Peter really wanted. He flipped through the report until he found the section on Neal's personal life, which was surprisingly boring.

Blake's research indicated that Neal had never married, and he'd had just three serious relationships since he'd left Cambridge – one woman and two men – and the last one had ended two years ago. Since then, there were about a dozen credit card payments to businesses that fronted for gay escort services. Peter found that curious. Why would a man like Neal Caffrey – wealthy, gorgeous, socially adept – need to pay for companionship? 

Most of the data was fairly innocuous and provided a snapshot of a somewhat dull and worthy life. In addition to his bought and paid-for companionship, there were regular purchases from art supply stores – so it seemed that Neal had kept up with that hobby. He had accounts with a number of custom tailors – which was hardly surprising. Reading material ranged from scholarly publications in the math and business fields to art treatises to self-published gay romances. Charitable donations were tightly focused on helping community-based LGBT organizations, but there was a note that Neal, through Sundance Equity, made substantial donations to many of the city's art museums. 

The report also detailed Neal's gambling activities. Despite the long-ago assertion that he didn't want to remain a professional gambler, it seemed that Neal never gave it up. He played in a dozen tournaments a year and for the last five years, had never failed to end up at a final table, and won everything approximately sixty percent of the time.

The last page had information on property Neal owned. In addition to a dozen investment properties held by various trusts traced back to Neal, he had homes in Macao, Paris, and the Cayman Islands, which Blake had noted was likely a tax haven. But based on travel and passport records, Blake concluded that for the past five years, Neal spent most of his time in New York, at the apartment he owned in the San Remo, on Central Park West. Peter had to laugh at the irony, the San Remo was just a few blocks from his own place, and he could see the two spires from his bedroom window. Before he'd gotten sick, his morning jogging route took him past the grand old building, and it was more than likely that at some point, he'd have run into Neal. Literally.

He wished he had. Encountering Neal now, when he was so diminished, seemed the worst sort of cosmic joke. Except that maybe this was just what he deserved. Maybe this disease was payback for the lie he told twenty-five years ago. This wasn't the first time he'd had that thought, but now he couldn't seem to get the idea out of his head.

Peter closed the folder and set it aside. When he left the office, he'd give it to Blake for shredding; there was nothing else in there that he needed to see.

And then the nausea, which had been absent for most of the day, returned with a vengeance. Peter took shallow breaths and held himself very still until the urge to vomit subsided. He checked his watch and realized that it was almost time for another Compazine. If he were smart, he'd pack it in for the day instead of trying to work through the drug-induced fatigue.

Today, he was going to be smart. He sent an email to Landon, letting her know that he was heading home and he called Blake back into his office.

"Sir?"

Peter smiled. Someday he'd break his assistant's habit of formality. "Thank you for the research – it was most informative." He pushed the file across the desk and Blake took it.

"No questions?"

"Nope."

Blake cleared his throat. "I did notice something."

"Oh?"

"You and Mr. Caffrey were at Harvard during the same time – he entered the doctoral program in math when you were finishing your bachelor's degree there. Did you know him?"

Peter wiped his mouth and muttered, "Excuse me." He took another steadying breath – and was actually grateful for the nausea, it gave him time to regroup. "Harvard's a big school and I was a lowly undergrad when he was there. Really didn't have much contact with the graduate students in the math department, especially once I started at B-school. That was the truth, just not the whole truth. And he was struck by a random thought – that it was a good thing that David Siegel's name had been on the lease for the house on Sidney Street.

"Ah, okay – I just thought it was an interesting coincidence."

"It is – and when I see Mr. Caffrey, I'll let him know."

"Don't forget to call Diana Berrigan to set up that meeting, unless you want me to do it?"

Peter thought about it – if he had to call Di, she'd want all the details about his split from Elizabeth and he didn’t think he was up to talking about it. "You know what – I'll let you arrange that. Sometime next week – but make it Wednesday or Thursday."

Blake made a note and asked, "What time?"

"Late morning – I seem to be at my best before lunch. The days have been going swiftly downhill after noon. In fact, I'm packing it in for the day. Can you call a car for me?"

"Good idea, Mr. Burke. You're not looking so good, and given how sick you've been, that's saying something."

He chuckled. "You know, since you feel free to insult me – maybe you could start calling me Peter?"

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

By mid-morning on Saturday, Elizabeth felt extremely accomplished. The house was clean, laundry done, business and personal emails answered, and she could relax for a little while. Her dog, Satchmo, was resting at her feet. 

She was going to need all the energy she had. In a few hours, she'd be managing chaos and gold lame banana hammocks at a baby shower. She'd told Neal Caffrey about her adventures with Bitsy Cunningham's granddaughter's bridal shower, but she didn't mention that Bitsy insisted on hiring the same group of strippers for that granddaughter's baby shower. The eight and three-quarter-month pregnant mother-to-be and her friends were a raucous crowd and Elizabeth knew she'd be earning every penny of her fee tonight.

She'd just finished her tea and was considering having another cup when the doorbell rang. She hoped it was the mailman with the package she was expecting. But it wasn't, it was – of all people – Diana Berrigan and her son, Theo, at the door.

There was a weird feeling in the pit of her belly – this was the first time she'd seen Diana in a few years. Diana and Peter had kept in touch after he'd left the FBI. They'd gone to Diana's wedding, had her over when she needed to commiserate after her wife left six months later. El had even arranged a small baby shower for her. But she hadn't seen Diana since then, and it wasn't like her to visit out of the blue.

But she opened the door and greeted the other woman and her son with a warm smile. "Diana, what a surprise! And Theo, you've become such a big boy."

Diana kissed her on the cheek. "I hope you don't mind that we've stopped by. We were in the neighborhood and when I asked Theo what he wanted to do, he said 'go visiting'."

The little boy bounced and echoed his mother, "Go visitin'! Go visitin'!"

Diana explained, "It's his favorite thing to do."

Elizabeth laughed. "Maybe because he's so adorable that everyone wants to give him hugs and kisses and candy?"

"Candy? Candy? Can I have, momma?"

Diana rolled her eyes at her son. "No, sweetheart. You just had too much candy and cake at Joshie's birthday party."

Theo pouted and shuffled his feet. "But we're visitin'. Always get candy when we go visitin'." 

At three, his behavior was still adorable, but Elizabeth could see a tantrum on the horizon. "Do you like dogs?"

The distraction worked, the pout disappeared and was replaced by wonder and anticipation. "Doggie? You have a doggie for me?"

El glanced up at Diana, who nodded her permission. "Yes, come – let's go say hello to Satchmo."

Her Lab was getting on in years, but Satchmo loved children and could always be counted on for good behavior around small humans. Theo made a bee-line for him, but Diana grabbed her son's shoulder and said, "Gently, Theo."

"Okay, momma – gentle." He plopped down on his butt next to the dog's bed and reached out to pat Satch's nose and was rewarded with a doggie kiss. Theo giggled and stuck his tongue out; Satchmo heaved himself up, took two steps and all but draped himself over the toddler.

Seeing the dog and boy had formed an instant bond, El turned her attention back to Diana. "It's good to see you. It's been a long time."

"It has." 

They headed over to the kitchen area and El offered Diana coffee. They made small talk as the pot brewed. When she put the cup down in front of Diana, Diana said, "I saw Peter the other day. He told me you two had divorced."

El settled down across from her. "You didn't know?"

Diana shook her head. "No. We've both been wrapped up in our work – we kept making plans to get together for dinner, but every time, something came up and we've had to cancel. We haven't seen each other or really talked in about a year. But I saw Peter on Wednesday, and that's when he told me. I still have a hard time believing it."

El tried to keep her annoyance off her face. So this wasn't an out-of-the-blue visit, after all. "I guess he told you that I left him."

"We really didn't have much time to talk – it was a business meeting. And the strange thing was that he left in the middle of it."

"Business meeting? You're not with the FBI anymore?" Elizabeth was surprised; Peter had always said that Diana would probably end up as Director in twenty years.

"No, I left about two years ago. I realized that Theo had to come first in my life."

El nodded. She'd never had much maternal instinct, but she could understand how difficult it was to be a single parent with a dangerous job. "So what are you doing now?"

"Believe it or not, I'm a troubleshooter for a private equity firm. Spend most of my time keeping the bosses on the straight and narrow."

"Sounds a lot safer." El remembered too many nights when Peter came home looking like hell and stinking of gunpowder.

Diana glanced over at her son, who was still enthralled with Satchmo. "It is. He's the most important thing in my life."

"He's beautiful, and such a happy child."

"Thank you."

"So, you saw Peter and he spilled the dirt?" El figured there was no point beating around the bush.

"Like I said, we didn't have much time for private conversation. Actually, I wonder if he'd have said anything at all about your break up if I hadn't commented on how sick he looked and wondered how you let him out of the house."

"Sick?" 

"Yeah – he looked like he’d lost a lot of weight. But it was more than that – he looked ill, like he'd been really sick for a long time and could barely stand upright."

"Last time I saw Peter – a week ago Friday – he hadn't looked too good. But he's a grown man and is responsible for himself." El pursed her lips, carefully considering her next words. "When I asked if he was all right, he made it very clear we weren't married anymore and I should stop interfering in his life."

Diana stared at her, as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"That's not to say that I'm not concerned, but Peter told me that since we're divorced, I'm not part of his life anymore."

"Elizabeth, surely – "

"Diana, Peter couldn't have made it clearer that he wanted nothing to do with me. And then he walked out. So what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know." Diana scrubbed at her face. "Okay, I guess I know what he's going through. I've been there, done that, already tossed out the tee shirt. It just hurt to see him so diminished."

"I know what you're thinking – that he looks like crap because I left him. That he's taking it badly. That it's all my fault."

"No – I don't think that at all. Believe me, I didn't come here to give you a hard time about your break-up. I'm just worried about a friend."

"Okay." El then asked, "You think he's really sick?"

"Yeah. I don't know what's going on, but he looked …" Diana huffed out a breath, looked over to her son, then whispered, "Like he was dying."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Maybe he has a virus or something. He didn't look that terrible when I saw him about a week ago. He'd lost weight and he seemed a little run down, but not like he was dying."

Diana shrugged. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm overreacting."

El hoped so. It hurt to think of Peter suffering alone. "If he hadn't been so damn adamant that he didn't want me in his life, I'd go over to his place and take care of him."

"Where's he living now?"

"In a condo on the Upper West Side, on Columbus Avenue. One of those big new buildings." El reached for a pad and a pen. "Here's his address. Maybe you can go see him?"

"Thanks. I'll try."

"Will you let me know what's going on?"

Diana gave her a speaking look; it was clear that if Peter asked her not to say anything, she wouldn't. Elizabeth didn't blame her – her first loyalty would be to her friend and former boss. Not to the woman who divorced him. "If you can."

"I will, if I can."

Diana left shortly after making that promise, leaving Elizabeth alone in her worry. She kept telling herself that her ex-husband wasn't really as ill as Diana thought he was. Peter had an iron constitution, and she could never remember him being sick for more than a day or two.

It was ridiculous to be so concerned. Wasn't it?

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	5. Chapter 5

By late Saturday afternoon, Peter was actually feeling better. That wasn't to say he was feeling good, he just wasn't quite so wretched. The fog from the Compazine had lifted, the nausea hadn't returned, and he wasn't quite so exhausted. It also helped that it was one of those perfect autumn days – the sun shining out of a painfully blue sky, the air crisp and clean, or as clean as the air could ever be in Manhattan. 

The world outside his window was too enticing and Peter figured he'd throw caution to the wind and go for a short walk. Winter would be here soon enough and so would other, less pleasant things. It would be a shame to let the day go to waste. To be on the safe side, he took the bottle of pills with him and a plastic grocery bag. Shoving the bag into his jacket pocket, he was hit by a wave of melancholy – there was a time when taking a walk always meant grabbing a bag. He missed Satchmo and if he'd made a big deal out of getting custody of the dog in the divorce, El probably wouldn't have fought him. But he worked long hours and it wouldn't have been fair to keep the dog cooped up in a strange apartment all day.

Now, though, he wished he had Satchmo. The Lab would be good company and keep him from getting too depressed about his illness. Peter sighed and told himself that there was no point in making such wishes – Satch was happy with El, far happier than he'd be with a sick man. 

Peter headed out before he could talk himself into staying inside and dwelling on the past. He didn't have a destination in mind, but he found himself heading east, towards Central Park. It would be nice to see the changing foliage.

His pace was slow and the streets were crowded, but no one was rushing anywhere. This was a residential neighborhood and it seemed like the whole world was outside, enjoying the autumn afternoon. 

The crowds thinned a bit as Peter turned the corner onto Central Park West. The pungent scent of decaying leaves was like heaven, reminding Peter of his childhood in upstate New York. He hadn't planned on heading into the park, but it would be nice to find a bench and linger for a while. Instead of crossing over, though, he kept walking – past the Dakota and the Langham – only stopping when he reached the entry for the San Remo. He told himself that he was just pausing to catch his breath. Going inside was out of the question. He'd be the worst sort of fool to see if Neal was home. And even if he was, why in the world would Neal want to see him? And yet he was rooted there, gazing up at the building, unable to leave, unwilling to go forward.

"Peter?"

Neal was standing in front of him, his face both curious and wary.

Peter was trapped – the sins of his past cruelty staring him in the face and there was no escape.

"Are you okay?" There was too much concern in Neal's eyes, too much wonder, too much joy. Too much of everything.

"I live – " He gestured to the west, "on Columbus Avenue, not all that far away. I was out for a walk. Just admiring the architecture."

"Ah." Neal stepped back as if he'd been slapped. "I thought … maybe you were coming to see me."

"I, uh. Um. I knew you lived here."

Neal's lips curved in a slight smile, and it might have been the play of light flickering through the trees, but hope seemed to glow again from those beautiful eyes. "Would you like to come up?"

Peter felt like his whole life had come down to this moment – a chance reunion on a city street that could lead to a turning point and maybe his one opportunity for redemption, forgiveness. He knew that if he walked away now, he'd never have this moment again. So he nodded and his silent assent was rewarded with another smile, one that just might ease the pain of a quarter century's worth of regret.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal couldn't believe that Peter was here, in his home. That he'd followed him meekly through the lobby to the elevator, that he stood silent as they travelled up to his apartment, although Peter had smiled slightly when he'd pressed the number for the twenty-first floor. Neal wondered if that had any significance for him.

Feeling more than a bit off kilter, Neal went into host mode. "Can I get you something? Coffee? A cold drink?"

Peter nodded and licked his lips, as if he were thirsty. "Sparkling water if you've got. Ice water would be fine if you don't."

"Sparkling water? When did you get so fancy?"

Peter shrugged. "Habit, I guess. Too many years of dealing with pretentious snobs who'd only drink Perrier or Pellegrino."

"Or maybe you've become one of them?"

Peter shrugged again. "Maybe."

"I'll be right back. I'm sure I have some sparkling water. But if not, you'll have to make do with club soda – or worse, seltzer."

Peter chuckled, and the familiarity of that sound was like a bubble of joy in his soul. He left Peter in the living room and raced to the kitchen – as if he were afraid that if he took too long, Peter might just disappear. But once he was alone, Neal told himself to just calm down and stop acting like a giddy teenager. This encounter didn't mean a damn thing – his company was a client of Peter's firm and likely Peter's presence here was little more than good client relations. 

Neal rooted around in his refrigerator and found what he was looking for. One small green bottle and a glass with ice in hand, he returned to the living room. Peter was standing at the floor to ceiling window, looking out at the park.

"It seems that I'm in the pretentious snob club, too. The only thing I have is Perrier."

Peter thanked him, took the bottle and emptied most of it into the glass, which he finished in two gulps. He emptied the rest and made quick work of that, too. "Sorry – I was thirsty."

"That's okay. Want another?" 

"No, this is fine." Peter set the glass on a table, and Neal noticed, with a smile, that he'd found a coaster first.

Of course Peter saw his expression and wondered, "What's so amusing?"

"Someone's housebroken you." He tilted his head towards the abandoned glass. "The Peter Burke who lived in the house on Sidney Street wouldn't have known what to do with a coaster."

That seemed to annoy Peter, and he snapped back, "What do you want me to say? I've grown up. I'm not the person I was back then."

The humor of the moment disappeared like the setting sun, and Neal nodded. "No, you're not. And neither am I."

Neal wasn't surprised when Peter said, "This was a bad idea, coming up here." 

"Maybe it was." _No, not maybe. Definitely._ But Peter's words still felt like a punch in the gut. Neal reminded himself that nothing good could come of trying to turn back the clock.

"Then why did you invite me?"

"Because I wanted to talk to you." _Because I've waited twenty-five years for this moment._

"About what?"

Neal shoved his hands in his pockets and stared hard at Peter. "About what went wrong."

"What do you mean, what went wrong?"

"Back in Cambridge. Back then. Why you felt that you needed to forget you ever knew me." Neal couldn't believe what he was saying. 

Peter turned back to the window and seemed enraptured by the view. It was after four and the evening shadows were consuming the world. "What do you want me to say?"

Neal could see the tension in Peter's shoulders; his whole posture screamed "stay away." But he wasn't going to back down, not now. He would never get this chance again. "I want you to tell me the truth."

"Let's not go there."

"Why not? Don't you think – after twenty-five years – I deserve the truth?"

Peter didn't answer him; he just continued to stare into the darkness.

"Tell me, Peter. Tell me why."

"You know why."

Neal wasn't going to give in. "Tell me."

Peter turned around, a single tear running down his cheek, his lips pursed as if he was fighting against the words.

Neal was relentless, he had to be. "Tell me." _Please._

Finally, Peter answered. "Because you were the only one."

"The only one?"

"The only one who could change my mind. Who could make me give up my dreams."

Neal shook his head, truly puzzled. "How could I have done that?"

"You don't even know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"As long as you were in my life, I'd always be tempted."

Neal thought he understood what Peter was telling him. "You were the most compartmentalized and driven person I ever met. There was nothing you couldn't do if you set your mind to it. If you didn't want to be tempted, if you didn't want to have sex with me, there was nothing I could have done to change your mind. No amount of seduction would have worked."

Peter whispered, "You're wrong, Neal."

"No, I don't think so."

Peter shook his head. "I'm not talking about sex."

Now Neal was even more confused. "If not sex, then what?"

"Love. The longer you were in my life, the easier it was going to be to fall in love with you. If we lived together, even as 'just friends – no benefits', I would have risked everything to build a life with you." Peter laughed, and the sound was harsh. "Ironic, isn't it? I was Mr. No-Strings, fuck 'em and leave ‘em, never kiss, never have sex with the same guy twice, but from the moment we got together, from the first time you kissed me, all those rules flew out the window."

"What are you saying?"

"It didn't take long before you were the only guy. The only one."

Neal gave him a scathing, skeptical look. "Bullshit, Peter. I was there, remember?"

"I'm not lying. Yeah, there were more girls than I could count, but by the end of the year, you were the only guy, the only man I was having sex with. For the next two years I told myself that I could just walk away, that I wouldn't need you, want you anymore. But that last year – when you went to Europe for a conference, whenever you went to Vegas or Atlantic City for a game, all I could think about was who you were sleeping with – who you were kissing. My jealousy terrified me."

Neal was stunned speechless.

Peter didn't stop, the words poured out of him. "And worse than that – I could see what would happen. I'd turn into some horrible needy and insecure thing, constantly terrified that you'd find me lacking, that you didn't feel the same way I felt, that I really was nothing more than a convenience – the fuck-buddy in the next room."

"So you ended it because you didn't want to get hurt. It wasn't really just about your career, was it?"

"No, not really. I told myself when I applied to the FBI that this was a good alternative. The Bureau was worse than the military about gays. There'd be no way I could keep up the pretense of a just-friends life with you and be an agent." Peter laughed, the bitterness even more palpable. "And the funny thing was, five years in, the FBI completely changed its policy about gay and lesbian agents."

Neal knew that. The consent decree the FBI entered into in 1992 had long been overshadowed by the injustice of DOMA and Don't Ask, Don't Tell. "But you were married by then."

"No, I wasn't. I hadn't even met my wife, but I couldn't go back. After what I did to you – how in the hell would I even have had the right to think you'd want to talk to me?" Peter dropped that bombshell and started to leave. 

Neal grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "You don't get to tell me that and just go. You don't get to destroy me again and walk out of my life like nothing matters."

Peter didn't fight him. He just stood there, like a steer waiting for slaughter.

Neal, in his anger, didn't bother leashing his tongue. "You know, when I allowed myself to think about this – this reunion – in my crueler moments, I imagined you'd have grown a gut and man-boobs, that you would be married to a woman who'd turned brittle from her dissatisfaction with you. That you had children who barely tolerated you, or worse. That your life was filled with misery."

"That's not far from the truth. No kids. My wife left me because she couldn't stand my need to be perfect. I stifled her. And she got custody of the dog, which would probably bite me if he saw me again." Peter looked down at his body and his lips twisted in self-loathing. "But no man-boobs, sorry to say."

Neal wasn't willing to let go of his anger. "Sometimes I wasn't so cruel to you in my imagination – sometimes, in my imagination, I saw you much as you were back then. You were handsome as a god – still as perfect as you were when you were twenty-five. Sometimes you'd be a closet case, chasing ass but always denying what you were. But other times, you were ridiculously happy with the life you'd chosen."

"And what would I say to you in your imagination, when we met again?"

Neal shrugged. "Usually nothing. We'd see each other and your eyes would slide away. You'd just continue walking. You still didn't want to know me."

"And that's what you thought when you _weren't_ being cruel?" Peter let out a harsh laugh. "I guess I deserve that."

Neal watched the play of expression across Peter's face – he wasn't bothering to hide the pain and the self-loathing. He reached out and brushed his fingers across Peter's cheek, tracing the path of that single tear. "Whatever I imagined has no connection to the reality I see here."

"That Peter Burke's a dried out husk, sick and bitter and old before his time?"

"No, that Peter Burke is like some shattered seraph, broken but not destroyed. And all the more beautiful for whatever pain he's survived."

Peter stepped away and Neal's fingers grew cold at the loss of that connection. "You always were a poet."

"You always inspired me."

Peter hunched his shoulders and met Neal’s gaze with steady eyes. "I'm sorry – for everything. I didn't know what to do, how to handle what I felt. I wanted something and I was too afraid to give up my dreams to reach for it."

Neal wanted to tell Peter that it wasn't too late, that maybe they could both have their dreams when he realized that Peter didn't know how _he_ felt, that they shared the same fears. He was about to pour his own heart out when Peter's face sort of crumpled and he turned a terrifying shade of green.

"Bathroom – please." Peter clapped a hand over his mouth and looked around frantically.

Neal didn't ask any questions, he took Peter's arm and pulled him towards a small powder room. 

They barely made it – Neal stepped aside as Peter found the toilet and started retching. The sound was ugly, the smell worse, but Neal couldn't let Peter fall into his own vomit and held his head. Peter continued to heave until Neal was sure there couldn't possibly be anything left in his stomach. 

After far too long, the spasms stopped, and Peter shuddered before lifting his head and collapsing to the floor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills, but his hands were shaking too hard to open it.

Neal took the bottle from him and scanned the label. "Compazine, 10 mg, take every six hours for nausea." He shook out a single pill, ran back to the living room for the glass Peter had used, and filled it with some tap water. Peter took the pill and swallowed, and Neal watched – to make sure the medication stayed down.

"Are you okay?"

Peter nodded. "Just give me a few."

"Okay." Neal reached over and flushed the toilet, then offered Peter one of the small hand towels to clean himself up. "Do you need any help?"

"No – just let me be."

Neal stood there, not happy at leaving Peter alone when he was in such distress.

"Please."

Neal retreated to the living room and noticed that he'd left the pill bottle where Peter's glass had been. He'd avoided saying anything to Peter about how terrible he looked – it seemed like stating the obvious. And Peter clearly knew that he looked bad. What had he called himself? _A dried out husk, sick and bitter and old before his time_.

He picked up the bottle and reread the label, hoping to find some clue about Peter's illness in the name of the doctor that issued the prescription. Google was a marvelous tool, and he had friends in the medical field who could be relied on for information. But he wasn't going to need either Google or his friends; the name of the pharmacy gave him all the information he needed.

Neal swallowed and carefully put the bottle down. His hands were shaking as bad as Peter's had been and he felt like rushing to his own bathroom to throw up.

That prescription had been filled at Memorial Sloan Kettering. The premier cancer hospital in New York, if not the country.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter sat on the floor and leaned against the commode – a position he'd become all too accustomed to this week. It seemed that his earlier hopes that the chemo-induced nausea was in retreat were in vain.

He knew he needed to get up and get out and get home. The Compazine worked quickly on the nausea, but he had about a half-hour window before he'd be overtaken by the drug-induced stupor. Peter heaved himself to his feet and clung to the sink while the room spun.

A few deep breaths and the dizziness passed. He washed up and stared at his face in the mirror. The image reflected back didn't surprise him; he looked like week-old crap and felt worse. It wasn't just the physical weakness, but the shame of putting that weakness on such graphic display. Of all the times he'd let himself think about a reunion with Neal, he never imagined that it would go like this. That he'd spill his guts – metaphorically and literally. 

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't hide in this tiny powder room forever, and if he'd felt any embarrassment about losing his lunch in front of Neal, having Neal drag out his comatose body would be far worse.

Another deep breath and Peter stepped out of the room. If he turned right, he'd be back in the living room where Neal was probably waiting for him. If he went left, he'd find the elevator and could leave without another word.

Peter turned right.

Neal was sitting on the couch, staring at a bottle of pills. His pills.

Peter sighed and Neal looked up, his face wrecked, but he didn't say anything. Peter sat down next to Neal, close enough to feel his body heat. He picked up the bottle and looked at it, smiling wryly. "I guess you've figured out my big secret."

"It's bad, isn't it?"

Peter nodded. "I've been having radiation treatments for a month. My first chemo session was last Monday."

"Can I ask – ?" Neal bit his lip and looked down at his hands.

Peter understood. "It's a fairly aggressive lymphoma."

"But they caught it early, right?"

He shook his head. "No, not really. It's Stage III."

"What does that mean?"

"It started in a lymph node in my chest and has spread to my groin and neck." Oddly enough, Peter didn't feel the same horrible dread he'd had every other time he'd discussed his illness. The other day, he could barely say the word "cancer", but now he was telling Neal just how far the disease had progressed without breaking apart. Maybe because he'd already been shattered. 

Neal nodded, but his whole body rocked back and forth. Still staring at his hands, he asked, "What's the prognosis?"

"If I survive the treatment, I have a seventy percent chance for a five-year survival. That's how they measure these things – in five year increments."

"What do you mean, if you survive the treatments?"

Peter took a deep breath; this was the murky territory he'd refused to think about. "My chemo schedule is accelerated and that has a lot of risks. I'll probably need to be hospitalized after the third dosage and be kept in isolation to avoid infections."

"You seem remarkably okay about this."

That earned a laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Today – right now, it's the first time I've told anyone how bad it is, and how bad it's going to get. Not even my partners at work know the details. Up to now, I've been in deep, deep denial."

"What about your friends? Your family?"

"No one. My folks passed away and I have no one else. Like I told you, my wife left me and there's no way I'd burden her with this. She's entitled to her own life now." Peter scrubbed his face. "Look, I've really got to get home. The Compazine knocks me out and I've got about fifteen minutes before I crash." Then he added, "I'm not running away."

Neal finally looked at him. "Stay here tonight. I've got four extra bedrooms and one has an en suite."

"I'm just a few blocks away – I'll be fine."

"But I won't be. I'll worry about you."

Peter was about to say that he'd be much more comfortable in his own bed, but the truth was, he hadn't had a good night's sleep in months and the idea of staying here was just too enticing. It didn't help that the drug was beginning to fog his senses and he doubted he'd be able to stay awake long enough to get a cab, let alone get home. "Okay, okay. If you really don't mind."

"I wouldn't have offered if I did."

Peter had his doubts about that – the Neal Caffrey he'd known twenty-five years ago was the soul of decency, and would never let anyone suffer if he could do something about it. He didn't think that the passage of time had changed him all that much.

He yawned and tried to get to his feet, but the lassitude was almost too much. Neal stood and held out a helping hand, which Peter accepted gratefully.

"The suite's upstairs – we can take the elevator if you can't walk."

"No – I think I can make it." He took a step and swayed. "Maybe not."

Neal guided him not to the main entrance, but to a small internal elevator that looked like it hadn't been updated since the thirties. It creaked a bit as it ascended, and Peter commented, knowing he sounded like an idiot, "Hope we don't get stuck."

"I wouldn't mind. Getting stuck with you."

Before Peter could respond, the elevator stopped and Neal let them out. "This way." He opened a pair of double doors and flipped on the light, revealing a rather grand suite. "I don't have too many guests, but my housekeeping service changes the sheets once a week, regardless. So everything should be fresh. If you need me, there's a phone next to the bed – pound-zero will ring the other phones in the apartment. Or just give a shout – I won't be far away."

"I'm sure it will be fine." Peter stared at the bed with longing. 

"I don't think I have any pajamas for you, but …"

"It's okay – I'll be fine." It took some effort, but he pulled off his jacket and toed off his shoes. The doors shut behind him with a gentle click, and the part of his brain that was still functioning realized that he'd just been extremely rude.

Peter managed to get the rest of his clothes off and as he slid under the covers, his last conscious thought was that maybe he now had a reason to live.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_What the hell are you doing?_ Neal asked himself this question over and over as he stood at the window and looked out over the park. The logical part of him, the mathematician who found beauty in the tyrannical rule of numbers, tried to dismiss the chaotic state of his emotions. And failed miserably.

Neal told himself that just because Peter had made such a dramatic re-entrance into his life didn't mean that he had to surrender his heart all over again.

But it was too late. His heart had never really been his own. Hadn't he chided himself over and over for his dreams? Hadn't his imaginary ideal always been Peter Burke? For chrissakes, hadn't he picked an event planner simply because the company was called " _Burke_ Premier"?

And wasn't that going to be a fucking mess? What Neal didn't want to think about was how he was going to tell Elizabeth that he'd had a three-year intimate relationship with her ex-husband, and that he was still foolishly, stupidly in love with him. And Peter just happened to be _that guy_ , the one who'd broken his heart.

Neal sighed. One problem at a time. He first needed to figure out what to do in the next twenty-four hours. At some point, Peter was going to wake up and he was going to want to leave – to retreat back behind the wall he'd built for himself. Neal wasn't going to try to fight the urge to care for Peter. To do so would be like fighting the urge to breathe.

Actually, the first step was going to be figuring out what Peter needed. There was always the internet, but he could do better and he sent a quick text to a friend.

_Call me when you get this. Have a problem you can help with._

Less than a minute later, his phone rang.

_"I hope this is a real problem, Caffrey – because this call's going to cost me a fucking fortune."_

"Send me the bill, Sara."

_"Don't think I won't. Now, what's the problem?"_

"I just learned that …" Neal paused, it hurt so much to articulate this. "A friend has cancer."

_"A friend?"_

"Yeah, a friend. I'm not talking about myself, don't worry."

_"Okay, okay – because that's exactly what I was thinking."_

Neal had met Sara Ellis about five years ago at a London casino. She'd entered a poker tournament as an amateur and had managed to hold her own and advance to the final table. Where she'd quickly been eliminated. After the game – which he'd won – Neal looked her up, intending to offer her some coaching if she wanted to turn pro. He'd been surprised to discover that Ms. Sara Ellis was actually Doctor Sara Ellis, oncologist, who had no interest in playing poker professionally.

They'd struck up an almost-instant friendship – much like the one he'd formed with Elizabeth Burke. Sara was driven, dedicated to her career and had little interest or time for romance. But she was someone Neal enjoyed knowing.

"First, tell me why you're calling me back on a Saturday night at – " Neal checked the time and accounted for the difference in time zones, "eleven-thirty."

_"I'm on-call."_

"You're the head of the department."

 _"Who still has to do her share of the less-desirable shifts if she wants to keep the respect of her staff. Now, tell me about your friend and what you need to know."_

"He has Stage III lymphoma – he told me it's aggressive, so the treatment is aggressive. He's having both radiation and chemo simultaneously. When I saw him this evening, he was okay and then he wasn't. It was like someone flipped a switch."

_"Nausea? Weakness? Exhaustion?"_

"Exactly. We were talking and then he turned green and spent the next half-hour over the toilet. He took a pill and just about passed out."

Sara peppered him with a dozen other questions, but Neal had no answers. Frustrated, she snapped, _"I can't help with so little information. And I'm not second guessing another doctor's diagnosis."_

"I don't need you to. I need to know what to do, what to expect. Peter's sleeping here tonight, but I don't know what he'll need when he wakes up."

_"Sorry for that – it comes from too many people begging for a second opinion at cocktail parties."_

"That's okay – I have no idea how you manage to do what you do and stay sane, anyway."

_"I'm not so sure I am sane. But anyway – one of the most important things you can do is make sure your friend eats properly. Getting enough calories is important. Do you know if he's talked with a nutritionist?"_

"Don't know, but somehow I doubt it. He's the stubborn and stoic type."

_"All right. If the chemo's wrecking his stomach, he'll do best with soft foods. They'd call them nursery foods here. Oatmeal, soft eggs, soup, pureed fruit if he can't tolerate fresh fruit. Things that will be easy to digest."_

"What about those protein drinks? Nutritional supplements?"

_"Those are good, but not the stuff for athletes – the stuff for old people. They're basically liquid candy bars with some extra vitamins. They'll provide some needed calories, but your friend might not be able to tolerate them – they can cause intestinal issues."_

Neal tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and started taking notes. "What about the way he just conked out?"

 _"The anti-nausea meds he took cause extreme drowsiness, and since he took a pill on a completely empty stomach – with nothing to buffer – the effects would be pretty immediate. I'd check on him, make sure he doesn't get dehydrated – that's a big risk right now."_ She went on to describe the symptoms of dehydration.

They talked for another half-hour, with Sara doing a good job of terrifying him with what to expect as the chemo and radiation progressed. It wasn't just going to be hair loss. The radiation was going to start burning Peter's skin. There was a good chance that he'd have long-term orthopedic and neurologic issues.

_"You sure you're up to this, Caffrey? Your friend's a very sick man and will get a lot sicker before he gets better."_

He took a deep breath, grateful that Sara didn't say _if he ever does_. "Don't know. But how can I not? He's someone I care about."

_"He's the one, isn't he?"_

"The one?"

_"The only one for you – I can hear it in your voice. You've finally met someone."_

No point in denying the truth. "Yeah. And don't you dare mention _Dark Victory_."

_"Wouldn't dream of it – I hate that movie, anyway – it's a stupid, manipulative melodrama. Call me when you have more information."_

"Will do. And don't forget to let me know what I owe you for the call."

_"Don't worry about it, this is my hospital-provided cell phone. I don't pay for it."_

Neal disconnected with a laugh, feeling a lot better than he had before talking with Sara. He made a list of items that he'd have his grocery service deliver and grabbed a bottle of water to take upstairs.

Before checking on Peter, Neal changed into a pair of loose track pants and a tee shirt – his customary yoga outfit. He had a long night of difficult research in front of him and before he started, he needed to get himself emotionally centered. But first, he needed to check on Peter.

As Neal was about to go into the guest bedroom, his phone beeped. Intending just to turn it on to silent mode, he saw the incoming email was from Sara and he figured it was something he'd need to see sooner than later.

_Neal –_

_Forgot to mention, but I've read a number of studies that touch is highly beneficial for chemotherapy patients. Intimacy releases oxytocin, a hormone which can aid in healing, mental outlook and overall wellness. While sex can produce the greatest amount of oxytocin, therapeutic massage and even skin-to-skin contact can help. Kissing is really good, too._

_If you care for this guy, don't let his illness stand in the way of day-to-day intimacy._

Neal read and re-read Sara's message a dozen times, and smiled as he thought about how he was going to explain to Peter that kissing could save his life.

He entered the bedroom and nearly tripped on the clothes Peter had left scattered on the floor. It took a moment to pick them up and drop them on the bench at the foot of the bed. Neal went over to the bathroom, cracked open the door and turned on the light. That gave him enough illumination to check on Peter without waking him up. And it helped that Peter was on his side, facing the door.

It was strange, being in a bedroom with Peter. Until that last night, they'd never actually slept in the same bed, but Neal was as frequent a visitor to Peter's bedroom in that house on Sidney Street as Peter was to his.

And even with Sara's email in mind, intimacy of any sort was not on the agenda. He just wanted to make sure Peter was all right.

He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the man who'd been such a huge part of his life for so long. At rest, the toll that his illness was taking was far too apparent – there was a slackness in Peter's neck and jaw, the skin thin and a little saggy – like that of a man thirty years older. 

Neal couldn't resist and he traced a finger along that jawline. He remembered when they were young, how quickly Peter's scruff grew in, and how much he'd enjoyed the beard burn. There was little trace of that now, although the skin was rough and dry.

Neal was about to get up when Peter licked his lips and shifted restlessly before opening his eyes. Neal held his breath, not sure if Peter was waking up or just in that in-between place between sleep and consciousness.

"I had a terrible dream, Neal." Peter's voice sounded strange, shallow and breathy. "We were old and we weren't friends anymore." 

Neal wondered if Peter was still asleep, if he was dreaming that they were still in college. Unwilling to shatter an illusion, Neal just said, "We're friends, Peter."

"I'm scared, Neal." There was so much terrible emotion in those words. "I'm afraid."

Now Neal wasn't at all certain if Peter was awake or dreaming. "I know, but I'm here for you." He took a deep breath and added, "Always."

"Would you stay with me?" There was so much vulnerability in Peter's expression. "I'm afraid and I don't want to be alone."

Even if Sara hadn't told him how important touch was, Neal couldn't deny this request. "Okay." He got up and shut off the bathroom light. The room wasn't completely dark – Peter hadn't lowered the shades and the city lights filtered through the sheer curtains. Neal stretched out on top of the covers and waited – not sure what Peter wanted from him. Not sure what he wanted from himself. Then Peter turned and slotted himself against Neal, using his shoulder as a pillow.

From the evenness of his breathing, Peter seemed to have fallen back to sleep. Neal stared up at the ceiling, joy and terror and grief at war within him.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter woke slowly, his mind split between disorientation and a sense of deep contentment.

He knew where he was – a guest room in Neal Caffrey's vast apartment; and he remembered why he was here – he'd gotten sick and Neal had been unwilling to let him go home.

What he wasn't clear about was why Neal was stretched out next to him, on top of the covers, sound asleep but looking very uncomfortable. The room was filled with early morning light and Peter took the opportunity to really look at Neal.

Time had laid a light hand on Neal, but the passage of years was evident. His once-dark hair was threaded with gray, except that his temples were almost completely silver. On another man, Peter might have thought that such drama was courtesy of a skilled hairdresser, but even back in their twenties, the sides of Neal's beard had grown in that color.

At rest, there were laugh lines around his lips and crows' feet at the corners of his eyes. Neal was fifty and it was clear that he didn't strive to hide it. Working in the private sector, Peter had routinely encountered men who desperately worked to erase any hint of aging – as if the appearance of youth would somehow magically bestow an ability to indulge in all forms of excess without consequence.

When he'd been introduced to Neal at the office, Peter wasn't sure what to make of him. Their meeting had been brief and at least on his part, very strained, and he couldn't tell how much remained of the loving, eager and open-souled man he'd known half a lifetime ago. But yesterday, after spending just a few minutes in Neal's company, he knew that the essential character of this man was still as fine and pure.

Of course the intervening years had made their mark on him; and his own lies and cruelty had damaged Neal, but he was the same man he'd tried so hard not to fall in love with.

And Peter knew he needed to be very careful. Not to stop himself from falling in love all over again, because that had already happened. No, he needed to make sure he didn't take advantage of the better angels of Neal's nature, to lean on that generous soul as if he had any right to. It would be so easy to dream of a life with this man, not one that they might have had if he hadn't been a coward, but a life where they discovered the men they were now.

Peter sighed and told himself to stop being such a damned romantic fool.

The noise woke Neal, who propped himself up on one elbow. "How are you feeling?"

He took a deep breath and considered the question. His body ached, which was nothing new, but he felt a lot more alert and energized than he had in days. "Surprisingly okay." 

"Then I'll let you get up."

"That's a good idea." His bladder was getting anxious and his mouth tasted like he'd been on a three-day bender. Peter wanted to ask why Neal slept with him, but couldn't find the courage. Instead, he asked, "Would you mind if I showered before going home?" 

Neal stared at him for a moment and Peter wished he hadn't asked. After all, there was no need to shower here. He had a perfectly acceptable bathroom at home – less than a half-dozen blocks away. But then Neal smiled and everything seemed all right with the world. He got off the bed and opened a door. "The en suite. It's kept fully stocked for guests and there are fresh towels and a robe for you."

Peter remembered Neal saying something about not having a lot of visitors, but still had to wonder.

Neal must have read the curiosity in his expression. "I bought the condo from a company that had leased it out as a corporate apartment. It came with all the amenities of a high end hotel and I've never changed them."

"If you're sure you don't mind. I really am okay, and can go home and get out of your hair."

Neal's face took on a serious cast. "You're not in my way. And we need to talk." At that, Neal left.

 _We need to talk._ Was there a more ominous combination of words in the English language? Peter chuckled wryly at that thought. Of course there was. _You have cancer,_ ranked up there, too.

He showered and took some time grooming. He felt better than okay and wanted to look better. He couldn't help the fact that he was putting on yesterday's clothes, but he wanted – no, needed – to show Neal that he was something more than a diagnosis.

Wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, he went back to the bedroom to finish dressing. And smiled.

His clothes had been neatly folded, and placed on top were new packages of underwear and socks. Armani, even. 

The shorts and tee shirt fit well and the snug way the underpants framed his package gave him a bit of a confidence boost. Then he realized that they were a size smaller than what he'd been wearing, and that sobered him. But that was a fact of his life at the moment. Among many other facts and almost irrelevant when weighed against the fact that Neal Caffrey, a man who should have spat in his face, held him through the night.

He finished dressing, frowning a bit at the sour smell coming from his shirt, but there wasn't much he could do about it. It wasn't bad, just another reminder that he was sick. Peter fussed a bit with his hair, fully aware that he was delaying the inevitable.

_We need to talk._

Like yesterday afternoon, his timing was superb. He left the guest room just as Neal was emerging from his own bedroom. 

"You doing okay?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, I am. And thanks for the contribution." He made a vague gesture to his torso.

"I figured that you'd like something clean." Neal tilted his head and gave him a considering look. "I don't think my sweaters will fit, though."

"It's okay. I live around the block, not on the other side of the country. I will be going home."

Neal looked like he wanted to debate that and a pleasurable curl of heat blossomed in Peter's belly.

"Let's go down."

Peter followed Neal back to the main floor, this time via a rather grand curving staircase instead of the rickety elevator, and into the kitchen.

He couldn't help but compare it to the one in his own condo. It was equally luxurious, but there was an undeniable appeal to this space. Unlike his own, this kitchen was frequently used. There was a laptop at one end of the large center island with a pile of papers next to it. The modern appliances had a patina only acquired through actual use – like the ones in the house in Brooklyn. He'd rarely done more than reheat leftovers or make coffee – food had lost its appeal long before his diagnosis.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"Nothing, really. Not much of an appetite, you understand."

Neal didn't seem to hear his reply, and said, "I have oatmeal – the instant kind, or how about some eggs?"

"Really, I'm not hungry. And I really should get going." 

Neal pointed at one of the stools at the island and commanded, "Sit."

Peter bristled at the order. "Excuse me?"

"Peter – "

He cut Neal off. "Look – I really appreciate the help last night, and everything. But – "

Now Neal cut him off. "No buts. Sit down, Peter." Neal stared at him, his expression utterly implacable. 

"You can't stop me from leaving."

Neal's laugh wasn't the least bit humorous. "Right now, a light breeze would knock you over. Don't be an ass. Sit down. We need to talk."

 _Right_. Peter gave in with bad grace and sat down.

"Now, what do you want with your coffee? Oatmeal?"

Peter made a face. He could still enjoy his morning coffee, but the idea of food was off-putting, to say the least. "Nothing."

Neal frowned. "Coffee on an empty stomach – especially after what you went through last night – is a bad idea."

"I know, but I need it. You want to talk, great – but unless you're prepared to caffeinate me and soon – I'm leaving."

"Okay – you win, for now." Although there was one of those pod-type machines on the counter, Neal fussed with an espresso machine that wouldn't look out of place in a Parisian café. The scent of good coffee, freshly ground just for one cup, filled the kitchen. Neal served it _au lait_ style, in a large cup with a pot of steamed milk and a box of sugar cubes. 

"I can't believe you remembered how I like my coffee."

Neal shrugged. "Some things stick with you." He didn't fuss for himself, using the single-serve pod machine for his own cup.

Peter fixed his coffee and took a sip. It tasted like perfection and the sweetness was an easy pleasure. But he couldn't bear the suspense and had to ask, "So, what do we need to talk about?"

Neal fiddled with his cup, staring at it before letting out a small sigh. 

"What's the matter?" Peter was getting nervous.

Neal pushed the coffee away from him and looked up, this time meeting Peter's gaze. "I want you to move in with me."

Peter wasn't sure he heard correctly. "What?"

"I want you to move in with me." Neal repeated his earlier words, enunciating carefully. 

"You're not serious."

"I am."

Peter took a deep breath. It felt like the world had started to spin on a different axis. "Why?"

"Because you aren't taking care of yourself."

"I'm – " Peter realized he was about to start the same argument he'd had with Landon earlier in the week. He might have been able to lie to her, but he couldn't seem to lie to Neal. So he went on the offensive. "We haven't seen each other in twenty-five years, not since I dumped you like a bag of trash. And now you want me to move in with you? Why?"

"Like I just said, you need someone to take care of you."

Peter blinked. "And to repeat _myself,_ why, after everything, would you want to do that?"

Neal just repeated, "Because you need someone to care for you."

"I'm a grown man, Neal – I think I can take care of myself."

"You have cancer." Neal paused and swallowed, and Peter had to wonder if that word tasted as foul to Neal as it had to him. "You live alone. I bet if I looked in your kitchen I'd find a lot of dust and a bunch of microwave meals and take-out containers. How much weight have you lost?"

Peter shook his head. "Neal, you don't have to do this."

"What if I want to?"

"And you still haven't answered my question, why _would_ you want to?"

Neal laughed – the sound filled with self-mockery, not humor. "Because, after twenty-five years, I still love you."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	6. Chapter 6

Neal hadn't intended to force the issue with Peter. He'd told himself to go slow, let Peter set the pace, but of course, his lack of impulse control made that impossible. He certainly hadn't planned on asking Peter to move in.

Last night, as he watched Peter sleep, he decided that the best approach was to play it slow, to woo Peter. Have him over for dinner when he was able to eat, offer to go with him to his chemo sessions, show up with some easy food for dinner and a movie. They needed time to relearn who they were, to find that easy camaraderie that had defined them back in their Harvard days. 

As they'd both said last night, they were different people now. 

But as much as a quarter-century of living different lives had changed them, he – Neal – still had the impulse control of a three-year-old. At least when it came to Peter. 

Even after he'd told Peter that they'd needed to talk, he hadn't intended to ask him to move in. He was going to tell him that he'd spoken with a friend – an oncologist – and she'd given him the rundown on what to expect. All Neal had planned on saying was that he was concerned about Peter's health, that he needed to eat properly, to get enough rest. 

If he'd had no intention of asking Peter to move in, Neal certainly hadn't planned on telling him that he loved him. Still loved him. But he had, and there was no way he could take it back. Truth be told, he really didn't want to.

The silence in the kitchen was profound. But at least Peter didn't leave. He didn't laugh at him. He didn't call him a liar or a fool. He just stared at his empty coffee cup, his expression unreadable. "I thought you hated me. Your scenarios of our reunion were pretty devastating."

"And for every moment I'd spent conjuring up those cruelties, there were a thousand other moments when I'd fantasized about what our life would have been like if we hadn't parted."

"You mean, if I hadn't been such a fucking coward."

Neal shrugged, conceding the point. "And there were another thousand moments of imagining a joyful reunion – where you were happy to see me. Where you wanted to be friends again." He shook his head. "Fifty years old, and I still feel like a teenager when it comes to you. I think the 'what ifs' and 'might have beens' will haunt me until I die."

Peter looked at him, chin raised, shoulders back. "I don't regret the life I've led. I don't regret my marriage. I don't regret joining the FBI. I don't regret putting the years of promiscuity behind me. But I do regret hurting you. I regret my cowardice and my cruelty. If I could have seen another path, I would have taken it."

"You loved your wife."

"Yes." Peter touched his ring finger, right where a wedding band would have been. "Elizabeth was the best thing that happened to me – I didn't deserve her."

Neal knew too much about the other half of this story and it was killing him to hear Peter talk about how much he loved his wife. "Did she know?"

"About what? That I'm bisexual?"

"Yes." 

"Yeah – I told her when we started to get serious. I told her almost everything. The men, the women, my reputation."

Neal latched onto one word. "Almost?"

"I never told Elizabeth about indulging David's predilection for voyeurism." Peter sighed. "And I never told her about you."

That confession did something to Neal. "It didn't bother her? Your bisexuality?" Neal thought he knew the answer, but he wanted Peter to confirm it.

And he did. "Not in the least. She never questioned my fidelity, she knew that I never wanted anyone but her once I made that commitment. It was one of the reasons why I loved her so much. She _trusted_ me."

"That is a rare and precious gift."

"And I fucked it up."

"How?"

"I didn't cheat on my wife, if that's what you’re asking. I know it might be hard to believe, given my reputation when we were at Harvard, but I never looked at another woman, at another man when I was married."

"Actually, Peter, that would be the last thing I'd expect you to do. You were always a man who kept his promises." Neal sipped his now cold coffee. It was revolting. "So, how did you fuck up?"

"I didn't let Elizabeth breathe. I smothered her. I tried too hard to be perfect."

"You said she left you."

"She asked for a divorce about a year ago. I didn't fight it."

"Why not?"

Peter didn't answer and Neal figured that maybe this was a question he didn't want to answer. But he did, and the answer surprised him. "Maybe because deep down, I figured that it was inevitable. I didn't deserve El. After what I did to you, I didn't deserve her generosity, her trust. Her love."

"Peter – " Neal felt like he was about to cry. "That's not true – you did what you had to do."

"I didn't have to tell you we weren't friends. I didn't have to deny that. But I was afraid, and now I'm paying for it."

Neal had a sudden, horrible suspicion. "What do you mean, paying for it? You don't think you deserve to have cancer?"

Peter wouldn't look at him, he didn't answer, and his silence was confirmation enough.

Neal couldn't bear it anymore. Not Peter's pain, not even the few feet of distance between them. He walked over to him and did the only thing he could do to ease his own pain. He wrapped his arms around the other man and held him.

For a few, too-long seconds, Peter was stiff and unyielding and Neal thought he might just shatter. But then he sighed and relaxed against Neal, resting his head against his shoulder. Neal threaded his fingers through Peter's hair, cupping his skull and holding him against his heart. 

Peter murmured, more to himself than to Neal, "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve a moment of your kindness. This is my punishment."

A dozen rebukes crowded on Neal's tongue, cold logic to do battle with Peter's magical thinking. But cold logic had no place in this moment. "I love you. Don't ever think that you don't deserve to be loved." Neal could feel hot tears soaking into his shirt, but that was only right. He was crying, too. "I love you, I've always loved you, and I don't care about the past."

Peter shuddered in his arms, and Neal just kept crooning those words, hoping that he could break through the wall that Peter had built, that this declaration could crack the mortar. He knew that Peter didn't believe him, couldn't allow himself to believe, to hope. He'd been through too much and too many of his wounds were self-inflicted, but just maybe these words would lay a foundation for something better, something stronger.

Too soon, Peter pulled away. He wiped his eyes and took a deep breath. "I'm dying, Neal."

Neal shook his head. "No – that's not true. Last night, you told me that you have a good chance of surviving."

"That's what the doctors say, but I can't see a future where I survive. There's a good possibility that the chemotherapy will kill me. I can't do this to you. I couldn't do it to Elizabeth, either."

Neal suddenly remembered Elizabeth's breakdown the other night, when she'd told him how brutally her ex had cut her out of his life. Even though he knew the story, he had to ask, "What do you mean?"

"I did to Elizabeth what I did to you. Only this time, my reasons were slightly less selfish. I told her that we weren't friends, we were just exes, and I got up and left. She was worried about me and I couldn't bear to tell her that I'm sick. She'd feel obligated to take care of me – after everything – she'd insist that I move back into the house. She'd give up the life she loved to care for a man she no longer did."

There was nothing in Peter's recitation that contradicted what Elizabeth had told him. Even down to the fact that Elizabeth no longer loved him. But it still angered Neal – not just on Elizabeth's behalf – because Peter was insisting on being a martyr. "So, you planned to just slink off, turn your face to the wall, and die? You never intended on telling anyone who cared about you that you are sick?"

"I don't want to be an obligation to her, to anyone."

"Diana Berrigan."

"What?" Peter was puzzled by his non-sequitur.

"My troubleshooter, your friend and former co-worker. Does she know your wife?"

"Ex-wife, and yes she does. We were close."

"And you don't think she's not going to go see her? To find out what's going on? I know she was shocked at the news you were divorced and she was very worried at how terrible you looked."

"Damn. I hadn't thought about that."

There was one thing Neal had to know. "Do you still love your ex-wife?"

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal's question felt like a punch in the face. But it was one he should have seen coming. And after everything that Neal had told him, it was a question he couldn't duck. Before Neal could retract it, Peter answered, "I don't know."

That answer seemed to surprise Neal. It surprised him, too. But it was the truth. "For as long as we were married, I was in love with Elizabeth. I loved her with a whole heart and if we were still married, I'd still love her."

"But you're not in love with her now?"

Peter tried to work out the question. "There's a difference between loving and being 'in love' – I think I will always care about her, deeply, profoundly. But if your question is do I have romantic feelings for my ex-wife, then I have to say I really don't think so."

"But you're not sure."

He sighed, feeling like a heel. "It's complex – and not just because El left me. I'm sick and I'm always feeling sorry for myself. I know if I tell El, we'd end up back together and she'd be miserable – although she'd never say a word or let it show. I'd be using her affection for me. And it would be easy to convince myself that my feelings for her are unchanged."

Neal asked another devastating question, "What if you weren't sick? What if your ex-wife knocked on your door and admitted that she'd made a terrible mistake, that she still loves you and wants to be with you? Would you get back together?"

Peter answered without even thinking, "No." His own answer shocked him. "When I signed the divorce papers, I thought I wanted nothing more than to be Elizabeth's husband. I still miss that, but I can't go back."

Neal sat next to him but the distance between them felt immense. "It's all so complicated."

"I can't move in with you, Neal. I can't let you do this."

"Why not?"

"I'd be using you. Just as I'd be using Elizabeth if she knew."

"You wouldn't be using me. I offered, remember? I want to take care of you. It's not like either of us are lacking resources. I'm not signing up for emptying bedpans, you know. When you need, _if_ you need skilled care, you can arrange for it and pay for it yourself. But you shouldn't be alone. You should be with someone who cares for you. Someone who loves you and will make this future endurable."

Peter sucked in his breath, the surge of emotions at Neal's words making him dizzy.

Neal laid a hand over his. "I know it's crazy, I know I'm opening myself up for a universe of pain, but I love you."

"I can't have sex." Peter shook his head and laughed at himself. "Getting ahead of myself there. But it's the truth. I haven't had an erection since … since before the diagnosis."

Neal shrugged. "It's been six months since I've been with someone other than my own hand. Sex isn't a big deal for me right now. And you're sick. You've been having radiation treatments, chemotherapy."

"I know, but there's more to it than that. I only found out I had cancer when I noticed a lump in my groin. It was interfering with … things."

"Did you have surgery?"

Peter nodded. "That's part of the problem – some of the nerves in the area were affected. Things feel weird." He didn't know why he was blurting this out to Neal, but it seemed like he needed to make a full disclosure. "And the scar is pretty ugly."

Neal's hand still rested on his, and his thumb caressed his knuckles. That gesture felt as intimate as a kiss.

"Sex was good between us, and at the risk of resurrecting a painful old ghost, I think it overshadowed something that was a lot more important."

Peter agreed. "The relationship I was too afraid to admit I wanted."

"You weren't the only one who was afraid to take the next step."

"Huh?"

Neal sighed. "I never said anything about how I felt, either. I just let us coast along. You said you were New York-bound, so I suggested we get a place together."

"You were planning on traveling, you wanted a home base."

"Which could have been anywhere in the world. The truth was, I desperately wanted to be near you without letting you know how I felt. I was scared, too. You weren't anyone's idea of a significant other."

Despite being profoundly shaken by Neal's disclosure, Peter laughed. "I was a slut."

Neal countered with "Man-whore." 

"Not denying it."

"And I thought I'd be in for some major heartache if I said anything. I really had no clue that you weren't having sex with any other guys."

"I don't know if I wouldn't have run for the hills if I knew how you felt. And I know that's a complete contradiction – I was jealous, worried about who you were hooking up with when you were traveling, and I was terrified that you didn't really care about me. But I was still scared."

"You wanted to be successful. You had a future you worked hard for and you didn't want to ruin it. It was the eighties and no one was out of the closet on Wall Street. It might have been worse for you if you were outed as bisexual."

Peter still had a hard time believing that Neal had forgiven him. "Why are you so understanding? Why don't you hate me?"

Neal let go of his hand and Peter shivered. "I did, for a while. I hated you for lying to me that last day. I hated you for your cowardice. But I couldn't forget that until that moment, you never lied to me, you never made any promises, you never pretended to be anything but who you were. Maybe if I'd said something, you wouldn't have felt like you needed to make that break. What if I said, let's go out on our own. Let's make a name for ourselves. What might have happened then? For twenty-five years I've lived with those questions. And while I don't regret the path my own life has taken, I don't want to let go of the chance to have a future with you."

"That future might be very brief, Neal."

"I know, and that's a risk that I'm willing to take."

Peter didn't know what to say. To have this dream within reach was almost more than he could bear.

And then his stomach rumbled. Loudly.

"Are you all right?" Neal gave him a worried look, remembering what happened last night.

"Actually, I think I'm hungry." Peter laughed in amazement.

"Now, can I make breakfast for you?"

"I think I'd like that."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Moz, I really appreciate this." Diana let her boss – and for today, her babysitter – into her townhouse.

"You don't need to thank me. Always glad to watch out for my namesake."

Diana ground her teeth and stopped herself from reminding him that it was pure coincidence that Moz and her son had the same given name. She'd given birth a year before she'd even met Theodore Winters.

"Now where is my little bambino?"

Diana took a deep breath and prayed for patience. "Theo's in his playroom, but before – " She was about to start giving him a list of instructions, but Moz ignored her and headed upstairs with a bag that was probably filled with all sorts of nonsense. After the last time he'd watched her son, she found copies of "A Child's Garden of Global Conspiracy Theories" and "Going Off the Grid – An Early Learner's Coloring Book" tucked in Theo's bookcase.

Her little boy looked up from the elaborate game he was playing with his stuffed animals and smiled. "Mothie!" He ran over and hugged Moz, babbling about visitin' and doggies and candy.

"Visitin'?"

Trust her son to be so indiscreet. "We stopped by to see a friend. She has a dog. Theo was … smitten."

"Every boy should have a dog."

Of course, that set Theo off. "Doggie! Doggie! Can I have a doggie, Momma?"

Diana winced; trust Moz to bring chaos into her household. "Sweetie, you know we can't have a doggie right now. Not until you're a little older." 

Theo pouted. "But …"

"Why not now?" Moz was intent on ruining her peace of mind.

"Because a p-u-p-p-y needs a lot of care and attention." 

Moz frowned, but didn't make any further comments on the canine-less state of her household. Instead, he picked Theo up and started asking him all sorts of questions about his favorite toys.

"If I can have your attention for a few minutes." 

Moz turned and gave her the stink-eye. "I'm listening."

"I'll be back by three. You can go out for a walk, but don't let him out of your sight. Theo's become a runner. His lunch is in the fridge – he generally eats well, but if he's fussy, don't force the issue. You can help yourself to anything in the house, except my wine or liquor."

"What about the pot in the back of the freezer?"

Diana wanted to tear her hair out. "There is no pot in the back of the freezer. There is no pot anywhere in my home! You are here to look after my child, not to get drunk or stoned."

Moz made a rude noise that she was sure she'd be hearing from Theo when she got home. "That I can do anytime. Having fun with this little gentleman will be the highlight of my week."

She didn't know why she let him get to her. She knew that he was – at least with children – utterly and completely trustworthy.

"If I may ask, what is the errand that takes you from this happy home?"

"I need to check up on an old friend, someone I'm worried about."

Moz nodded. "Then you better get going. We have things to do." He made a funny face at Theo, who giggled and made his own face back.

Satisfied that her precious son was in good hands, Diana left. It was a nice day and the walk from the Upper East Side to Columbus Circle took about a half-hour. She used the time to consider her conversation with Peter. Up until this past year, they'd been very close. Peter had been her sounding board and confidant, but the obligations of a new job and a growing toddler had loosened those bonds. 

But those bonds were still strong, strong enough for her to get to the root of a very obvious problem.

When she got to the address that Elizabeth had provided, she double-checked it. This tall glass pillar was not a place where she could envision Peter Burke living. He might have become wealthy working on Wall Street, but he was still beer-drinking, dog-walking, sports-loving ordinary-guy Peter.

"Can I help you?" The red-coated doorman gave her a slightly suspicious look. She wished she still had a badge and gun on her hip.

"I'm looking for Peter Burke, can you tell me if he's home?" She hoped this wasn't the sort of building that refused to acknowledge residents. Apparently it wasn't. The doorman picked up a phone from a small console by the entrance, pressed a number and waited for a few moments before returning.

"Mr. Burke isn't accepting visitors at the moment."

Since Diana didn't see the man's lips move when he was on the phone, she had to figure that Peter wasn't home. So much for her well-planned ambush. And there was no point in leaving a message here, she'd call him at his office tomorrow and if his admin tried to block her, she'd chop him up and feed him to some subway rats.

As she turned to leave, she noticed the doorman's eyes widen and he went into the equivalent of parade rest. Diana couldn't help but follow his gaze.

She smiled; there was Peter – and in the harsh morning light, he was looking a hell of a lot better that he had on Wednesday. He didn't notice her, however. Maybe because he was talking with another man. 

Someone she knew quite well. Her boss, Neal Caffrey.

Neal saw her first, and he smiled that familiar grin – the one she'd seen him give reluctant clients just before they handed over control of their fortunes. Then Peter noticed her, and he smiled, too. His grin, though, was full of warmth and sincerity.

"Diana! What a lovely coincidence." Peter reached out and hugged her. "What brings you to the Upper West Side?"

Neal stood there, hands in his pockets, that fake smile still plastered on his lips. "Yes, Diana – I'm curious, too. This isn't your usual stomping grounds. And where's Theo?"

"Theo's at home, with a sitter." There was no way she was going to tell Neal that Moz was watching her son. "And I'm here to talk with Peter."

"Me?" Peter seemed surprised. "I'd asked my admin to get back in touch with you – to set up a meeting with …" He looked over to her boss and she wasn't sure, but there might have been a light flush climbing his cheeks. "Neal."

Diana blinked, worried for her friend and concerned about what her employer was getting up to. "What's going on here?"

Peter looked over at Neal, as if he was seeking some guidance. Neal's smile softened and Diana thought he looked besotted. But when he answered her question, there was a thread of steel in his tone. "That's really none of your concern."

"Actually, Neal, it is. You're a principal owner of a company that's looking to do business with Peter's firm. And here it is, Sunday morning and you're heading back to Peter's apartment. This doesn't look particularly kosher."

Neal replied with unaccustomed aggressiveness, "Maybe we're just coming from church."

"You're an avowed atheist and Peter's a lapsed Catholic. So I repeat, what's going on?"

Peter stepped between them, as if he thought they might come to blows. "Guys, let's not do this here, okay?"

Diana realized that they had a very avid audience – the doorman.

Neal gave a terse nod. "Shall we go up?"

Peter led them inside, to a bank of elevators that required key-card access. For some reason, Neal grinned when Peter pressed the button for the twenty-first floor. Diana thought it was amusing that Peter now lived on the same floor as their old offices at the FBI, but didn't know why Neal would share that amusement.

Peter's apartment was distinctly un-Peter-like. Too much gloss and black leather. But she wasn't here to critique her friend's terrible design aesthetic. "Now, will one of you please tell me what's going on?"

Neal started to say something, but Peter held up a hand, cutting him off. "Neal and I knew each other from our time at Harvard."

"Knew each other? How well?" 

This time, Neal answered. "We shared a house for three years."

"And yet, you did a very good job of pretending that you'd never met before." She glared at Neal. "You pumped me for information. Some pretty personal stuff."

Peter tried to intervene. "Don't be angry at him. If I'd known you were working for Neal, I'd have done the same thing."

"I don't understand." She looked from Peter to Neal and back to Peter again.

Peter explained, "We didn't part as friends. I did something pretty shitty and we hadn't seen each other in twenty-five years. I was shocked when you showed up with Neal at my offices last week, and when Neal played it cool, I figured it was best to do the same. But we've had the chance to clear the air. To mend fences."

Diana wasn't ready to be mollified and she took her anger out on Neal. "You shouldn't have done that to me – you shouldn't have played me like that."

Neal's expression turned hard, so hard that the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. "My relationship with Peter Burke is none of your business. The questions I asked were legitimately related to my concerns about his representation of Sundance Equity. _You_ volunteered the information about Peter's divorce, about his relationship with his wife."

Diana stepped back, as if she'd been slapped. Neal was absolutely correct. "I should have known better – I've seen you work people. You're a social engineer without equal, and I don't know why I thought I'd be exempt from your – your deviousness."

Neal smirked, his expression cold and nasty. "Diana, if you don't like working for me, you are free to pursue other alternatives."

Peter intervened, "Neal – don't be like that. Diana's an old friend and she's looking out for me."

Neal responded to Peter, but he continued to look at her with that same derisive expression. "Diana doesn't need you to stick up for her. She's a badass without equal – and if you know her as well as you think you do, you know that she can take just what she dishes out." He waited for a few moments, then asked, "Well, Diana?"

"Peter's right – I am looking out for him. But I'm also looking out for you. This – this relationship is going to make things complicated."

Neal asked, "Why?"

"Ever hear of conflict of interest rules?"

"Peter's a friend, an old school tie. You know the game – Wall Street would fall apart without them."

"Sundance is a small firm with a huge footprint. Shepard and Franklin is another small firm with an outsized reputation. A perfect scenario for publicity-hungry regulators and Assistant U.S. Attorneys looking to get their names in the paper. If there's something going on between you two, it probably would be best if Sundance looked elsewhere for a financial advisor."

Neal asked a reasonable question in a rather unreasonable tone, "Why do you think there's 'something going on' between us? We're old college friends who've reconciled their differences."

She snapped back, "Because you're gay and Peter's bisexual and even if you've just 'reconciled your differences' I can see the hearts and flowers around you like you're posing for a Valentine's Day card."

Neal gaped at her. "You know Peter's bi?" He then turned to Peter with a very hurt expression. "You told her?"

Some of the anger she felt about Neal's ulterior motives for questioning her last week was erased by the pain in that question. "I was having a hard time at the office. I sort of came out in the middle of a big meeting."

"I thought the FBI had a policy about that."

Diana responded, "Don't Ask/Don't Tell? That was the military."

"I know that – I thought the FBI didn't ask and didn't care. The 1992 Consent Decree."

"You know about that?"

"I had reason to keep track of such things." Neal kept a careful gaze on her. "So, why did Peter tell you he was bi?"

"After I blurted out that I had a girlfriend, I spent the next week worrying that I was going to be fired or transferred and Peter realized what I was thinking. He told me that things were different than when he'd joined, that there was no need to stay in the closet if I didn't want to. No one was going to care."

Peter finally contributed to the conversation. "Diana didn't believe me. That's why I told her."

There was a lot more to it than that, but Neal seemed to accept the explanation. "If you really think that we're going to run into problems, then we'll back away from Shepard and Franklin."

Diana watched as Peter went over to Neal and put a hand on his shoulder. "You won't have to. It's not like I'm going to be overseeing the work, anyway."

Neal nodded, understanding something that Diana had no clue about.

"Peter? Will you please tell me what's going on?"

Peter scrubbed his face and Diana was again struck by how ill he looked. Without the padding and tailoring of a suit or the bulk of a jacket, the weight loss was way too evident. And from the worried expression on Neal's face, there seemed to be something very wrong. 

Neal leaned into Peter's space and gave him a concerned look. Peter shook his head. Diana couldn't help but feel a touch of envy. These two had been apart for a quarter-century and yet they seemed to have the whole silent communication thing down pat. She'd never had that, not even with Christie.

Peter sat down, Neal sat next to him – close but not touching – and rather than being the last one standing, Diana sat down across from them. She figured she had one more card to play. "I was in Brooklyn yesterday. I stopped by and saw Elizabeth."

Peter and Neal exchanged looks again, and for some reason Neal looked just a little smug – as if she'd just proved him right.

Peter sighed and asked, "And what did my ex-wife have to say?"

"She's angry at you. But she's worried, too."

"I know."

"I feel like a broken record, Peter, but can you please tell me what's wrong?"

Neal touched Peter's hand and Peter clasped Neal's fingers, then sat up a little straighter. "I have cancer. Neal knows, but he found out by accident. Other than the people at work who need to know, you're the first person I've actually told."

Shocked, the only thing Diana could say was, "That's a rather dubious honor."

"One I'd rather not have had to bestow."

Diana ached to ask for details, but there was something in Peter's posture that made her feel like he was at the end of his rope. "I'm guessing that you don't want me to say anything to Elizabeth."

"No, please don't. That's something I need to do myself. I need to make things right."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Other than be a pain in the ass to this guy –" He nodded in Neal's direction, and Neal ducked his head but seemed to smile with a sort of quiet delight, "no. Not right now."

To her surprise, Neal spoke. "Don't be a stranger. Peter's going to need his friends. I don't know if you're the type who gets weirded out by sickness – and that's not something you can control – but stay in touch with him. Send funny cat pictures and bad jokes or videos of Theo doing something silly, if that's all you can manage, but as much as you can, stay a part of his life. That's important."

Diana felt like she was about to cry and maybe she looked like that, too, because Peter came over and hugged her. "Can't promise that it'll be fine, but I'll do my best to make it that way."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

After Diana left, Peter felt a strange sort of tension radiating from Neal. He was tired, feeling slightly nauseous, but he couldn't ignore it. "What's the matter?"

Neal gave him a startled look. "Nothing. Why do you ask?"

"You seem a little upset."

"I do?"

Despite the passage of years, Peter hadn't forgotten how good Neal was at deflecting. "Come on, you seem upset. What's going on?"

Neal sighed. "Just worried. About you. About Diana."

"You were a little hard on her. Not that she can't take it."

"I don't like being the bad guy."

"I actually thought it was kind of cute, you going all badass." Peter grinned at the flush that stole across Neal's cheeks. "I kind of liked you being so protective, even if it wasn't necessary."

"This is very new." Neal made a gesture that encompassed the two of them. "It feels fragile and I don't want anything to happen to it."

"Diana was looking out for both of us."

"She was looking out for you. I might sign her paycheck, but she doesn't really quite trust me. She sees me as a shark in a good suit, not a lot of substance and less morals."

"She sees what you show her. Somehow I don't think you've really let your guard down around her, and she's still too much of an FBI agent to trust easily." 

"It's ironic, but I think she trusts my partner a hell of a lot more."

"Theo Winters?" Peter wanted to know more about the man who'd been a fixture in Neal's life from almost the time that they'd parted.

"Mozzie."

"He's a little different."

"And then some. I'm surprised you haven't had a workup done on him. On both of us."

Peter figured that lying at this stage would be a bad idea. "Actually, I did get a report on you. But we couldn't find much on your partner."

Neal chuckled. "Your research team is good – they didn't trigger any of the alerts I've set up."

"My staff has some unusual resources."

"I'm curious, now. What scandalous information did they find?"

Pleased that Neal wasn't upset at his digging, Peter relaxed. "Nothing scandalous at all."

"Then you couldn't have dug very deep."

"Or maybe you have a different idea of what constitutes scandalous behavior."

Neal didn't answer, but looked at him with one skeptical eyebrow raised. 

"I know you've hired 'escorts', if that's what you're getting at."

"Yeah." Neal shrugged diffidently. "I haven't had much luck with long-term relationships and sometimes I get lonely. It was just easier to pay for a night's company than deal with the inevitable failure."

Peter felt something shift in his perception of Neal. "Did I do this to you?"

"Do what?"

"Make you …" Peter struggled to find the words.

"Hire prostitutes? You might be responsible for a lot of things, but that's not one of them." Neal's tone was flippant.

"No – not that. Make you so certain that any relationship would fail."

Neal rested his chin on his hand, the mocking twist to his lips softened. "Honestly, yeah."

"I'm so sorry. I know I already said that, but I am." The shame eviscerated him.

"It's your fault, but not the way you think."

"What do you mean?"

Neal smiled, a sad little twist to his lips. "Those relationships failed because I kept looking for you, kept wanting you. And the older I got, the more I realized that since I couldn't have who I really wanted, there was no point in deluding myself into believing I'd be able to settle for something else."

"Neal – " He felt like his heart was breaking.

"Peter, it's okay. Really." Neal touched his cheek, the caress almost too fleeting.

The drama with Diana, and now with Neal, was exhausting – and worse, it seemed to have triggered his nausea. "I think I need to lie down."

Neal nodded. "Do you want to get into bed?"

"No – actually the couch is a lot more comfortable than my bed."

"Okay. Maybe you want to get into something more comfortable?" 

Peter nodded. "Probably should take a pill, too. Before I really need it." He got up and retrieved the bottle from his jacket pocket. Hating to sound needy, but unable to stop himself, he asked, "Would you stay for a while? Until I fall asleep?"

Neal smiled softly. "I have no plans to go anywhere."

Peter felt like he'd just been given a gift of immeasurable worth. "Thank you."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Nice hours you're keeping," Moz commented as Neal helped himself to one of the fresh bagels that were delivered every day. "Glad one of us is interested in getting some work done."

"Your snark isn't appreciated this morning." Neal prepped the office espresso machine with a little more force than necessary. 

"You okay?"

Neal shrugged, he really didn't want to talk about his weekend with anyone, least of all his too-perceptive business partner. "Had a rough weekend."

"So you decided to sleep in?"

Neal shrugged again and concentrated on spreading just the right amount of cream cheese on the bagel. "I had something I needed to take care of this morning."

"Something more important than the meeting with the Pedersons?"

Neal winced. "Sorry, I forgot. How did it go?"

Moz rocked back on his heels and grinned. "Had the old man eating out of my hand. It was probably better that you weren't there. We seem to have developed a nice bond." Moz rubbed his shiny pate. "I think he likes me better. You're too – shall we say – follicularly blessed."

Neal remembered that the old man, the patriarch of the clan, was as hairless as a newborn babe. Except for a rather spectacular set of eyebrows. "So, are we a go?"

"Yup. He's going to convince the family that Sundance is the key to reviving their fortunes. They just want to meet the entire team. Are we good with Shepard and Franklin? Even though Peter Burke went AWOL in the middle of the meeting?"

Neal felt the beginnings of a flop sweat form at the base of his spine. He hated lying, especially to Moz. And then he rationalized, it really _wasn't_ lying. Just the omission of some not-really-relevant facts. "I think we're good with them. You liked Landon Shepard and Diana trusts Burke. Have they sent over an engagement letter?"

"Yup, read it, reviewed it, sent it back and told them to cut the hourly rates by twenty percent and promised a two-point bonus if the deal closes in twenty days."

"Do you think they'll agree?"

"Already got word back from Landon. She's eager to get to work, we're just waiting on your signature."

"Okay." The espresso machine finished its job and Neal took his cup and his bagel back to his office, where his admin was waiting with the engagement letter. Rather than just signing it, Neal took the time to read it through. He noted that Peter had been listed as the client partner, but work would be performed by associates and other members of the firm and subject to review by any of the other Shepard and Franklin partners. Which was only right, the deal the firm had with Pratt had never sat well with him, for reasons that now seemed obvious.

Neal finished his breakfast and signed the paperwork. 

Then he called Peter. "Hey."

_"How come your number's in my phone?"_

Neal chuckled. "I put it there last night."

_"But my phone is fingerprint protected."_

"You were sound asleep. I just kept trying fingers until it unlocked."

_Diana's right, you are devious."_

"Is that a problem?" Neal couldn't stop smiling. This banter felt so damn natural.

_"Not in the least. I'll have to try that trick on your phone some time."_

"No need, I've already put your data in it."

_"Devious, Neal. Very devious."_

He changed the subject. "How are you feeling?"

_"Tired. Bored. Like I should be in the office, but I know if I was there, I'd barely be able to keep my eyes open."_

"Did you eat?"

_"No."_

Neal sighed. "You need to eat."

_"I know, just don't want to start throwing up again."_

"What about some fresh fruit?" Neal felt a little ridiculous mother-henning Peter, but he was worried.

Peter didn't answer right away. _"You know, some watermelon would be good. If I had the energy, I'd go get some."_

"No need. I've got a delivery service. Just clear it with your doorman."

_"You don't have to order food for me. I can do that myself."_

"Then why haven't you?"

Neal heard the heavy sigh. _"Because I've been lazy and feeling sorry for myself."_

"Then let me take care of this for you. You'll have fresh fruit and some other stuff within the hour."

_"Okay. Thanks."_

Neal hated how defeated Peter sounded. "I know I'm being pushy."

_"You are. But I appreciate it."_

"So, what are you going to do with the rest of your day?"

_"Well, other than wait for a delivery, not much. Don't really have the energy. Maybe if I had a dog, I'd take it for a walk. But no dog."_

Neal was shocked at the longing in Peter's voice. 

Then Peter laughed. _"Last time I took a walk by myself, my whole world changed."_

"Huh?"

_"I ran into an old friend."_

Neal smiled, suddenly understanding. "Maybe you should just stay in, then. Your couch is surprisingly comfortable."

 _"I know I already said it, but thanks for staying last night."_

"I – " Early this morning, Neal had brushed off Peter's appreciation with a quip, but this time he couldn't. "I didn't want to leave you."

_"It was nice waking up with you there, again."_

"I liked it, too." He'd spent all day Sunday with Peter, watching him watch an assortment of football and hockey games, watching him doze, making him dinner from the meager contents of his fridge, and watching him doze some more. He hadn't minded. This time with Peter, after so many years apart, was something rare and precious. Peter had fallen into a deep sleep around eight and resisted Neal's attempts to get him into bed. The couch was broad, and Neal grabbed a blanket and a pillow from a bedroom before settling down next to Peter. Despite the strangeness of the situation, Neal fell asleep once Peter draped an arm over his waist and pulled him close. It was strange, but at the same time, completely natural.

The morning sun had poured through into the apartment with all the subtly of a fist to the face, but Neal woke to find Peter gazing at him, his eyes filled with so much emotion. But they didn't have the time to explore their feelings. It was a little before seven and Peter had to be across town, at Sloan Kettering, for his radiation treatment within the hour. 

Despite the fact that he'd slept in his clothes, Neal insisted on accompanying him. He wanted – no, he _needed_ – to understand what Peter was going through. But he was doomed to disappointment. Peter disappeared for about ten minutes, and as he'd explained – he basically stripped to the skin, got onto a table and was zapped for about three seconds. The techs spent more time lining up the little tattoos he'd been marked with than anything else.

 _"What are you doing?"_ Peter interrupted his musings.

"Just signed the engagement letter with Shepard and Franklin. Moz did some negotiating and it's fine."

_"Thanks."_

Over the connection, Neal heard the unmistakable sound of Peter yawning. "Sounds like someone needs a nap."

_"You know, that sounds like a good idea."_

"Call me when you get up, okay?"

 _" 'kay."_ Peter yawned again and Neal resisted the urge to yawn, too. _"Talk to you later."_

Neal reluctantly ended the call and placed the order for Peter's food. He sat at his desk, staring at nothing. He was still having trouble comprehending how, in three days, his life had become both wonderful and terrible.

"Boss?" 

Neal looked up; Diana was hovering in the doorway. From the expression on her face, she seemed uncertain of her welcome. He supposed that he needed to make things right with her. "Come in." Then Neal changed his mind. "Actually, do you feel like going for a walk?"

"A walk?"

"Yeah. I could use some fresh air." He put on his jacket, not waiting for Diana to agree to his request.

"Um, sure." 

Neal gestured for her to precede him and while she retrieved her own jacket, he handed the engagement letter back to his admin and told her that he'd be back in an hour or so.

Diana returned and neither of them said anything during the trip down to the street. A little after noon, the lunch crowd was picking up, making it difficult to talk. Neal headed towards Bowling Green. The afternoon sunshine was bright and this would be a good place to talk.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


	7. Chapter 7

She sat down next to Neal on one of the benches that surrounded the fountain. It had been turned off for the season, although the basin was still filled. The water reflected the deep blue October sky and the brilliant autumnal colors of the trees. It was a pleasant oasis in the middle of the hectic Financial District.

Diana knew she needed to apologize. Before Neal could say anything, she jumped in, feet first. "I like my job. I like working for you and Moz. I don't want to leave, but Peter's a friend. He's important to me."

Neal immediately put her fears to rest. "I know that. Maybe I was a little too hard on you. And you were right, I was pumping you for information and I'm sorry."

But still, Diana was surprised. "You're apologizing?" She hadn't expected Neal to realize what he did was wrong.

"Yeah. I am. It doesn't happen often, but that wasn't a nice thing to do to you. I was playing you, but my intentions were good."

She couldn't help but say, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

"That's true. And you have to understand, I was shocked to see Peter. You never mentioned his name and I had no idea that you'd worked with him."

"He was my mentor when I was fresh out of the FBI Academy. I was his probie – probationary agent – when he was working in the financial crimes division. About a year after my probie term ended, he was given a task force in Antiterrorism and took me with him. He was more than just my boss, he was my friend. But I still don't understand how come you didn't know I worked for him. He wrote my letter of recommendation; he was one of my references when I applied for the job with Sundance."

Neal offered a reasonable excuse for his ignorance. "I let Moz handle your hiring. At the time, I was up to my neck with the Mortensen acquisition. Moz said you were just what we needed, that your references checked out. And more importantly, he liked you. As I'm sure you've learned, Moz doesn't like just anyone. When I realized that we needed a troubleshooter, I knew that if Moz didn't like whoever filled that job, he would have made their life a living hell. So when Moz said he wanted to hire you, I signed off without question."

Diana asked, desperately curious, "If you'd read my file and realized that I'd worked for Peter, what would you have done?"

Neal shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I would have done pretty much the same thing that I did to you on Wednesday night."

"How come you never did a background check on Peter? Never looked for him? You certainly have the resources."

"I didn't want to. It was easier not knowing what had happened to Peter than knowing and not being able to see him. I had no clue where he'd ended up, but I figured he was married and had children. There was no way I'd interfere with that life."

Diana let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Neal Caffrey had always been something of an enigma to her. She had appreciated his intelligence, but he'd cultivated an image of someone who liked to skirt the rules. At least when it came to his personal life, that now seemed to be just an image. Maybe this was a chance to get to understand him a little better. "You said you've known Peter since college."

"Grad school for me, actually. I needed a place to stay when I started my PhD at Harvard and Peter had an opening in the house he and a friend were renting. We were housemates – and lovers – for three years. It didn't end well."

"Peter said he did something awful to you." Diana shook her head. "That doesn't sound like the Peter Burke I know – a man who'd cut off his arm before hurting a friend."

"Peter was different back then."

Diana still couldn't see it. "How?"

It didn't surprise her that Neal was reluctant to answer. "He was very driven."

"That's not so different from the Peter I know."

"Maybe a better word would be 'ambitious'. He was focused on his future and wouldn't let anything interfere with achieving his goals."

"Including you?"

Neal nodded, the gesture filled with sadness. "Yeah, including me."

She had to ask, "What did he do?"

Neal wasn't going to tell her. "It's ancient history, Di; we've both come to terms with it. And for what it's worth, the Peter Burke you know is a much better man than the one I did. Not that Peter was bad or mean or anything like that. He was young and he had dreams. It was the Eighties and being in a relationship with another man would have interfered with the future he wanted for himself."

Diana wasn't convinced.

"Let me put it to you like this. The Peter I knew would never have outed himself to anyone, not to a very young subordinate, and especially not to make her feel more secure. It simply would never have occurred to him to do that."

Diana didn't like the sound of that. "It sounds like he was a selfish prick back then."

Neal chuckled. "He was a good person, but yes, something of a selfish prick."

"But he's not now."

"No. It's very clear that he's changed. He grew up. We both did."

Diana let that drop and turned the conversation to a more immediate worry. "He's very sick, though."

"Yeah." Neal buried his face in his hands.

"I didn't want to ask for details yesterday. He looked like he was at the end of his rope. Can you tell me?"

"Peter said I could give you some of the details. He has lymphoma. It's fairly advanced, but not untreatable."

Diana sucked in her breath. She'd figured it was bad, but she hadn't expected it to be this bad. "What are they doing?"

"He's been having radiation treatments for about a month, and he just started chemo. His first session was last Monday, and instead of staying home and recovering, the idiot insisted on going to work."

"No wonder he looked so awful. And that would explain what Elizabeth said."

"Elizabeth, that's Peter's ex-wife?"

"Right. When I saw her on Saturday, she had said that while Peter didn't look good, he didn't look like he was deathly ill."

Neal nodded. 

"I'm guessing that the recent chemo session would account for the difference."

"Yeah." Neal's expression was unreadable. Diana wondered if he was going to ask her to tell him about Peter's ex, more than what she'd shared on Wednesday night. But his comment surprised her.

"I guess I should be grateful for Peter's stubbornness."

"Huh?"

"If he hadn't insisted on going into work, to take the meeting with us – with you – we never would have reconnected." 

"I still find it strange. You and Peter."

Neal smiled a little shyly and his eyes went, for lack of a better word, soft.

"You love him."

"Always have. Even when I hated him, I loved him. Don't know if that makes me a pathetic loser, to spend twenty-five years longing for the one who got away."

Diana did something that she never would have dreamed of doing ten minutes ago. She draped an arm around his shoulder and gave him a hug. "You're not the only one who still wants the one who did you wrong."

Neal leaned into her for just a second. "Thanks."

They sat there for a few more minutes, staring at the fountain. "You know, it is a rather creepy coincidence."

Neal chuckled. "There are no coincidences. It's all a matter of probability."

Diana laughed, too. She just remembered that Neal was a mathematician. "You would think that way."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

As Neal had promised, the order of fresh fruit arrived within an hour. It wasn't some grand platter fit for entertaining, but a collection of containers from Whole Foods at Columbus Center, a few blocks away. Peter had to laugh at the extravagance. Watermelon, strawberries, a variety of melon, plus grapes and kiwi – all beautifully ripe, sliced and ready for eating. 

Peter managed a few pieces of watermelon and about a dozen grapes. The fresh taste staved off the nausea and managed to satisfy the slightly hungry feeling that had been nagging him. He knew that this wasn't enough and that he probably should have some protein, but it all seemed like too much effort.

Neal would likely argue and give him a look, then go make him something to eat. But Neal wasn't here right now.

He checked in with Blake at the office, who was happy to report that there was nothing urgent that required his attention. When he mentioned that he hadn't heard back from Diana Berrigan, Peter told him not to worry, that he'd spoken with her over the weekend. Blake also reported that Ms. Shepard had signed off on the client engagement letter and they'd just received the copy signed by Mr. Caffrey. 

_"Is there anything you need, sir?"_

"For you to stop calling me sir. Or Mr. Burke."

_"Okay … Peter."_

"There's nothing else. But if something comes up, text me."

_"Ms. Shepard said not to bother you. That anything critical should be diverted to her office. Wait, I probably shouldn't have told you that."_

Peter smiled. Blake was good and he knew exactly what he was doing. "So – anything critical?"

_"Nope."_

"Really? Because I'm bored and wouldn't mind helping sort out a crisis or two."

_"Before or after you toss your cookies?"_

Peter laughed. "You're pushing it, Blake. And for the record, no cookie-tossing today."

_"Not yet, you mean. It's barely two o'clock."_

Peter checked his watch and was surprised to see that Blake was correct. "Feels much later."

 _"Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you?"_ Blake paused, clearly for effect, then added, _"Peter."_

"No, I'm good." He extracted a promise from Blake to text or call him with anything important, and as he hung up, he yawned. He'd fought off the urge to nap after he'd spoken with Neal. There had been a delivery to wait for, but now there was no reason not to stretch out on the couch and shut his eyes. 

Except he couldn't seem to shut off his brain. That wasn't an uncommon occurrence, even before he got sick. But unfortunately, what he used to do when his body was tired and his mind wasn't, was not an available option. Peter laughed a little bitterly at the irony – he'd only discovered the tumor in his groin when he was jerking off. 

He let his hand rest lightly over his cock; dressed in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, masturbating would be easy – if only he could get an erection.

His spank bank was pretty much drawn down to the limit, and he could think of almost nothing titillating. He certainly wasn't going to fantasize about Elizabeth – that was simply all kinds of wrong. As he mentally riffed through some of his college days, none of the memories of the girls he'd fucked or even the boys he'd fucked did a damn thing for him. It wasn't just that his dick wasn't working, he didn't find them even mentally arousing.

But there was one fantasy that he hadn't yet tried, one that for twenty-five years he'd ruthlessly pushed aside, because touching himself and thinking about Neal could only lead to disaster. But maybe not anymore. Neal was in his life, and more than that, Neal _loved_ him. 

Peter summoned a memory, one that had terrible, wonderful power – their first kiss.

He could feel Neal's lips ghosting over his, his tongue playful and wicked, and under his palm, Peter feel his cock stir. The sensation was muted through the layers of fabric – he didn't want to touch himself, he didn't want to feel the still healing scar tissue just to the right of his dick. But the more he thought about Neal, the stronger the sensation became. He was actually getting an erection.

But as soon as he allowed the delight in that accomplishment to distract him from his fantasies, he lost it. It didn't matter. He wasn't permanently impaired, he just needed to give it some time.

Peter refused to accept that he wouldn't have the time to give

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

There were days when Elizabeth wished she'd stayed in the art consulting business. The hours were much more regular and it was unlikely that she'd ever be called upon to bail an octogenarian socialite out of jail. But she'd never been wholly satisfied with that work, which was why she'd spread her wings in the first place. Ironically, when she and Peter had first been married and he was an up-and-coming FBI agent, her work with the Diarmitt had seemed so special and out of the ordinary, but when he'd moved into the private sector and started making stupid money, it turned out that "art consultant" was something that just about every other trophy wife was doing.

Not that event planning wasn't a market cornered by the town and country set, but unlike her so-called peers, she actually worked – managing the process from start to finish. She sweated the details, and while she wasn't a micromanager, she didn't delegate a lot. 

But today, she really wished she could just kick back with a girly drink – no, make that a full pitcher of girly drinks – and tell Yvonne and Brittany that they needed to handle everything because she was too exhausted to deal with anyone else's crap today.

Except that she couldn't do that. It was barely three o'clock and there was still a ton of work to do. This was her business, she built it from nothing and it mattered more to her than anything – including her marriage to an undeniably good man.

El rubbed at the space between her eyes; she could feel the start of a blistering headache at the simple thought of Peter. She'd called Diana this morning, hoping that she'd followed through and gone to see her ex, but Diana had just texted a reply, saying that she'd follow up later in the week. Which was a bullshit answer if she'd ever heard one. There was something going on, but unless she went to see Peter herself, she wasn't going to get any real answers. 

Elizabeth checked her schedule, and there was no way she could wedge in a visit with Peter until the end of the week. There were two corporate parties, three bridal consultations, and tomorrow afternoon, a trip to Oheka Castle in Cold Spring Harbor with Neal Caffrey.

She sighed. Of all the appointments on her calendar, this was the one that would be easiest to move and the one she least wanted to reschedule. Then she realized that she'd never received a confirmation back from Neal that he could make it on Tuesday. To Elizabeth's chagrin, when she checked her email, she found that she'd never actually contacted Neal about the appointment.

Now she had a dilemma, should she go forward and set up the appointment with Neal or reschedule with the Oheka people?

It didn't seem right to just push Neal aside without a word. Not only was he wealthy and well-connected – which was good for business – but he was a friend.

So, rather than just make the change without consulting him, she decided to give him a call and explain. It's not like he didn't know what was going on with her personal life.

El half expected that Neal wouldn't answer – it was the middle of the day and likely as not, he was in a meeting. His phone rang three times and she was mentally composing her message when Neal answered. _"Elizabeth! Good afternoon."_

"I'm glad I caught you. I'm following up about the plans to take a look at Oheka Castle." El could hear the tentativeness in her voice.

_"Is there a problem?"_

She sighed. "A small one. I heard back from the catering manager and she's got time to give us a tour and a tasting tomorrow afternoon."

_"That's short notice. I'm not sure if I'll be able to make it. Something's come up."_

El was relieved. "Good, because I was going to ask you if you minded rescheduling."

 _"You double booked me?"_ Neal was definitely laughing at her.

"No, unfortunately not." She couldn't help the heavy sigh.

 _"Unfortunately? What's going on?"_

"I need to do something I'm not looking forward to."

_"Since you said you aren't double booked, I take it you're not talking about getting your plumbing checked."_

"Neal!" She laughed at his outrageousness. "No, and believe me – I'd rebook _that_ in a heartbeat."

_"Then what's the matter?"_

"I need to go see my ex."

 _"Your ex-husband?"_ Elizabeth wasn't sure, but there was something strange in Neal's tone.

"Yeah. I'm really worried about him. And the more I think about it, the more worried I get."

_"I thought he told you to 'get lost'? That he didn't want you in his life anymore?"_

"He did, but I just can't shake the feeling that there's something terribly wrong."

_"And you still love him? You want to take care of him? Even though you divorced him?"_

Elizabeth thought Neal's questions were a little out of line, but they were friends and he was worried about her. "I will always care for Peter. We were married for a long time, and although I wanted more out of life than being his wife, I can't stop caring. Peter's alone, he doesn't have any close friends, not the type who'll look out for him."

_"Like a wife would?"_

"Or an ex-wife. Someone needs to nag him to go to the doctor. Peter's one of these men who thinks he's invincible, that he'll never get sick. I doubt he's had a physical since he left the FBI."

_"So, what are you going to do?"_

"I was thinking of ambushing him tomorrow night at his apartment." Then she rethought that plan. "That'll be a problem – he's in a doorman building and I won't be able to sneak in. Maybe I should try his office."

_"How about instead of ambushing him, you call him. Tell him you want to talk to him."_

"After what happened the last time I saw him, I doubt he'd even answer the phone."

_"Can you call him from a number that he won't recognize?"_

"Good idea. Anyone ever tell you that you've got a devious mind?"

Neal chuckled. _"Actually, yes."_

"Thanks for understanding. And for being a friend."

_"Happy to help."_

"I'll call you next week about rescheduling the Oheka trip."

_"Thanks. And good luck with the ex."_

El hung up and was about to ask Yvonne if she could borrow her phone when Bitsy Cunningham called. It seemed that her granddaughter went into labor last night and had a baby boy. She wanted to know if Elizabeth would be interested in catering the circumcision?

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_And so your chickens have all come home to roost_.

Neal rubbed his eyes, feeling like an absolute heel. He couldn't believe he actually asked Elizabeth if she still loved Peter. He couldn't believe how threatened he'd felt. How threatened he still felt.

The sharp pressure of blunt claws against his thigh distracted Neal from his dangerous thoughts and he smiled. It seems that his new companion easily picked up on his distress. Lula was an eighteen-month-old pure-bred golden retriever that Moz – out of the goodness of his heart, and quite possibly a desire to make Diana insane – bought for Theo Berrigan this afternoon. She'd been waiting at the office, together with all the accoutrements required for introducing a dog into a household, when he and Diana had returned to the office after their conversation in Bowling Green.

Diana had taken one look at the dog and all but tore Mozzie's head off. "I told you, Theo's too young for a puppy."

Moz rocked back on his heels, unfazed. "She's not a puppy. She's a year and a half old, trained and spayed and housebroken. What's the problem?"

"The problem is that I told you that I'd get Theo a dog when he's a little older. How am I supposed to take care of her?"

"You have a nanny."

"Who's not paid to watch after a dog. Which will need to be walked several times a day."

"I don't see the problem with that. Theo can go with the nanny." Moz was obdurate. "Every boy should have a dog."

"Did you have a dog when you were three years old?"

"No." Moz's expression changed, grew hard. Neal knew that Diana wasn't aware of Mozzie's childhood. A dog was one of the very many things that Moz didn't have as a child.

"Dogs need to be walked, regardless of the weather. And well after little boys go to bed. I can't – I won't – leave my son alone to walk a dog. Not until he's older."

Moz sagged, defeated. "I didn't think about that."

Diana softened. "I know – and I really do appreciate that you mean well and that you want the best for Theo. But having a dog right now is not going to work."

Moz looked at the dog, who gazed back up at him with dark, liquid eyes. "I hope I can find a home for her. She was a rescue – her owners were moving overseas."

Neal had watched the argument from the doorway, and a wonderful idea formed. "I'll take her."

The other two looked at him – calculation on Mozzie's face, concern and then comprehension on Diana's. 

"I've been thinking that I'd like a dog."

Moz, without a shred of irony, said, "Dogs need to be walked, Neal. You work, you travel."

"There's no reason why the office couldn't be pet friendly – we do own the building. And as for traveling, I won't be doing a lot for the foreseeable future."

Moz had remained skeptical. "Oh? You're giving up your seat at the tournament in Monte Carlo next month?"

Neal had forgotten about that, but there was no way he'd be leaving Peter anytime soon. "Yeah."

"Hmm. Well, if you want Lula, you can have her." 

"Lula? That's her name?"

"Short for Alleluia. Seemed like less of a mouthful." Moz had handed him the leash. "Now, get out. Some of us have work to do."

Diana had taken the dog bed while Neal managed a bag with food and other sundries, and the three of them headed back to his office. 

Lula – and Neal actually liked the name – settled down on the bed and Diana fished a small toy out of the bag for her to play with. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Getting me out of a tricky situation. Moz probably would have worn me down – fed me a story about having to take the dog to a shelter if I didn't want her. Which would have meant that Theo would have ended up with a much-longed for new playmate, and I would have had a major headache on my hands."

"Can I ask, how come Moz bought Theo a dog? That doesn't seem particularly in character for him."

"He occasionally watches Theo for me – occasionally. And Theo mentioned a dog, which set Moz off."

"'Every boy should have a dog'?"

"Right." 

Neal had asked, suddenly not so sure he'd done the right thing. "Will Peter like her? He'd mentioned something about a dog – his ex had gotten custody. And he seemed a little upset about that."

"Yeah – Peter loves dogs. He adored Satchmo – I remember how excited he'd been when he brought the puppy home from the breeder. You'd have thought he was talking about his own flesh and blood. I'm guessing you want the dog for Peter?"

"I was thinking that it would be good for him to have a dog – something to keep him company. A puppy wouldn't be smart – too much work, but Lula seems very placid and well-trained, if the five minutes I've been exposed to her is anything go to by." 

"You know, that sounds like an excellent idea."

"Thanks."

Diana left and a few minutes later, Elizabeth had called. And everything suddenly seemed so complicated.

But Lula wasn't complicated. She was pretty, with soft fur, floppy ears and endlessly deep eyes that gazed at him with adoration and trust.

"Peter's going to love you, girl. You're going to love him. And we're both going to make sure that he's happy, right?"

Of course Lula didn't understand a word Neal said, but she nudged his hand with her head, demanding what was her due – all the affection and attention he could provide.

Neal snapped on Lula's leash and took the supplies that Moz had provided. As he walked out, his admin caught his attention – there were papers to sign. Which was nothing new, there always were things to sign – contracts, orders, banking instructions. He didn't want to deal with any of that today. Instead, he instructed her to call for his car and forward anything urgent to Moz for his approval. Otherwise, he'd handle everything tomorrow.

As he waited at the curb for his car, Lula piddled on the dirt at the base of a tree. So, of course, Neal had to ask, "Do you have to do any other business?" Lula just sat at his feet and gave him a happy pant.

She was a good passenger, content to sit on the floor in the back of the car rather than try to stick her head out the window. Neal made a mental note to get more information about Lula's former owners. She was almost too well behaved.

During the ride, Neal tried to find the best way to tell Peter that he knew Elizabeth, that their relationship was a matter of coincidence – except he knew that he remembered what he'd told Diana earlier, that there were no coincidences, it was all a matter of probability. 

It wasn't as if he'd known anything about Peter's married life until Diana had mentioned his ex-wife's name during their conversation following the meeting at Shepard and Franklin. But he knew that at some point on Sunday, he should have mentioned Elizabeth. It might have been a little awkward, but they would have gotten past it. Now, after he'd grilled Peter about the state of his heart, about whether he still loved his ex, and worse – after his conversation with Elizabeth herself, he felt like a sleaze and Peter would likely think he was truly devious.

He arrived at Peter's building and went through the process of introducing himself – and Lula – to the doorman. This morning, before they'd left for the appointment with the radiation oncologist, Peter had told the doorman then on shift to add Neal to his list of cleared visitors and handed Neal a spare key card for his private elevator.

The doorman checked his list and opened the front door, casting a wary eye on Lula. She behaved like royalty, not even deigning to notice the man in the red coat.

On the brief trip up to Peter's apartment, Neal couldn't stop wondering if Elizabeth had spoken to Peter, if she was now on her way back into her ex-husband's life. 

The apartment was quiet and dark and Neal worried for a moment that Peter wasn't home. But his jacket was still on a chair in the foyer – where he'd left it this morning after they'd come back from the radiation appointment. His wallet was also there, resting on top of a receipt from the delivery service.

Lula sniffed the floor and the air, and pulled him towards the main living space, where he found Peter stretched out on the couch, his hand cupping his groin, a smile on his lips, and fast asleep.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what Peter had been doing – or at least thinking of doing, since his hand was _outside_ his clothing. 

Neal let go of Lula's leash and waited to see what she'd do. The girl was smart and she made a beeline for Peter, carefully sniffing him before giving him a rather sloppy kiss on his cheek. Neal watched in amusement as Peter, still asleep, tried to brush Lula away. But the dog wasn't going to be deterred. She licked Peter again, a long swipe of her tongue against his neck and cheek.

Peter muttered something that sounded like, "No, Satch" and rolled over, turning his back to both Neal and Lula. The dog looked at him, as if she was waiting for further instructions. Neal gave her a casual wave of his hand – a gesture to continue. She panted happily and jumped on the couch, continuing her affectionate investigation of the sleeping man. Neal pulled out his phone and started taking pictures, although there really wasn't enough light in the room. But some moments needed to be preserved.

Lula's attentions finally proved too much for Peter's somnolent state. He rolled back over and opened his eyes. "What the hell?" Peter sat up abruptly and Lula slid inelegantly off the leather couch and let out a sharp bark of displeasure.

Neal flicked on a light. "Hey there – brought you some company."

Peter rubbed his eyes. "What?"

Lula launched herself back onto the couch and draped herself over Peter's lap. "Why is there a dog here?" 

Neal smiled, because despite the slightly irritated tone in Peter's voice, he was already stroking Lula's head. "I thought you'd like some company in the afternoons."

"So, you got me a dog?" Peter looked at Lula's face and was rewarded with a tongue washing.

"Yeah. How are you feeling?"

Peter seemed to take stock of himself. "All in all, not too bad. I slept for most of the day. And thank you for the fruit. It was just what I wanted."

"Good." Neal sat down next to Peter and Lula's formally exquisite manners seemed to have crashed under the canine imperative to give as much affection as possible to everyone in her vicinity.

"So – the dog."

"Her name is Alleluia – but Lula for short."

"You just went out this afternoon and bought me a dog because I made some passing remark?"

"No, not quite. Mozzie bought Lula as a gift for Theo Berrigan on the theory that every boy should have a dog."

"And Diana refused to accept."

"Right. Theo's too young and a dog would not be an easy addition to her household."

"And you thought that giving me the dog would be a good thing?"

"Yeah, but if you don't want her, I'll be happy to keep her. She can come to the office with me." Neal gave Lula a belly rub and she panted ecstatically. "And I'm cutting down on my travel, so doggie daycare won't be an issue."

"Why aren't you going to be traveling?"

Neal just gave Peter a look.

"Ah right." Turning his attention back to Lula, Peter commented, "And if you do need to go away, you can always hire a pet sitter."

"That is true, if you're not able to care for her."

It was a precious gift to come home and sit with Peter on the couch, imprisoned by the warm weight of an affectionate dog. Neal could almost forget the uncomfortable burden he was carrying.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter couldn't quite believe that Neal brought him a dog. How many times in the last few months had he felt the sharp loss of Satchmo's companionship? Just this morning, he'd whined to Neal about not going for a walk because he didn't have a dog. And now – just like that – he had one; a lovely young golden retriever who seemed to have no concept of personal space.

He looked at Neal – his smile seemed a bit tentative – and said the only thing he could. "Thank you."

"I've often been accused of having the impulse control of a three-year old. But it seemed like the perfect choice."

Peter continued to stroke Lula's head, relishing the softness, the warmth, the sheer alive-ness of the dog, and felt some of the perpetual melancholy that plagued him since his diagnosis ease. "It was. She's going to make a difference for me."

Neal nodded. "That's what I'm hoping for."

"You're making a difference for me, too."

Neal cocked his head, giving him a puzzled look.

Peter sighed. "Last week – and I still can't believe that it's only been three days – I was wondering why I was bothering with treatment. I was having a hard time figuring out the point."

"Of living?" Neal was shocked.

"Yeah. It's hard to explain – I wouldn't say it was depression or suicidal thoughts. But just having difficulty understanding why I needed to suffer so much pain in order to live."

"Was it because you had no one?"

Peter shrugged, although the question was valid. "A part if it was that. Being alone made me question too many things. But I think that if I told Elizabeth how sick I was, she might have wanted to patch up our differences."

Neal got a very strange expression on his face. On anyone else, it might have been guilt, but maybe it was jealousy. Before he could say anything, Neal reached over Lula and took his hand.

"There's something I need to tell you. And I need you to listen to everything before you react."

Peter couldn't imagine what Neal had to say that required such a dire warning. "This doesn't sound good."

"A few weeks ago, I decided I wanted to throw a sixtieth birthday party for my business partner, Mozzie. I wanted it to be something very special, so I decided to hire an event planner."

As soon as Peter heard those last two words, he knew what was coming, but Neal held up a hand, forestalling any comments, and Peter decided he needed to just listen.

"I started with the Internet – did a local search and came up with more than a few names. One, however, really caught my eye."

"Burke Premier Events?"

"Yeah." Neal laughed a little. "I made a decision to hire an event planning company on the basis of the name. Burke. That was it. That's how much I've never been able to forget you – you've influenced something as random as that."

"So you've met my ex-wife."

"I did – about two weeks ago. We met for drinks, to discuss some ideas, for me to get a sense that I'd made the right decision."

Peter had a feeling he knew just what night Neal and Elizabeth had met, but he didn't interrupt.

"Elizabeth told me she was divorced almost immediately. But she'd never mentioned your name."

"Really?"

"Yeah. That night, she'd just said she was divorced and had gone back to her maiden name, even though she wasn't changing the name of her business."

"And you didn't ask?"

"No – I didn't, and it didn't really occur to me to do so."

Peter could understand that. Burke wasn't as common as "Smith" or "Jones" but it _was_ a fairly common name. "Okay, so you've met my ex."

"She's a very lovely woman. I can understand why you married her. She's smart and beautiful."

Peter agreed, "Yes, she is." But he knew that there had to be more to Neal's story than this. "What aren't you telling me?"

"We've become friends."

"And?"

"She told me what you'd said to her. We were having dinner – at my apartment – she'd wanted to share some ideas for the venue. I noticed that she was upset and when I asked her what was wrong, she brushed it off. So I told her we were friends, and then she burst into tears."

Peter swallowed. "I'd told her we _weren't_ friends. We were exes and we had no relationship. I did to Elizabeth what I'd done to you."

"Yeah. But I still had no idea that she was your ex. She'd never once mentioned your name, or even that her former husband was a retired FBI agent."

"When did you make the connection?"

"Not until after our meeting at Shepard and Franklin, when Diana and I went for drinks and talked. As soon as she said Elizabeth's name, I knew."

Peter extricated himself from Lula's weight and walked over to the windows. He wasn't sure how he felt about this. 

Neal joined him. "I didn't know how to tell you. When to tell you. Maybe I should have on Saturday – but there were too many other things to say. Maybe if Diana hadn't shown up on Sunday, I would have figured out how to tell you. But it wasn't a priority."

"And it is now?"

"Yes." Neal turned around and leaned his back against the window. "I got a call from her this afternoon."

"Just out of the blue?"

"No – we had an appointment to go look at a venue for Mozzie's party and she wanted to cancel. She needs the time to see you. She's terribly worried."

Peter sighed and stared out at the darkening city skyline. "I didn't want Elizabeth to know I'm sick."

"That's why you cut her off?"

"Yeah."

"Noble, but stupid. Very stupid."

"I looked at her, so beautiful and bright and vibrant and _happy_ and I thought that if she knew, she'd feel guilty, she'd want to give up everything she'd worked so hard for, to take care of me."

"Do you want her to?" There was so much emotion in that question.

Peter looked at Neal, seeing the pain, the longing, the _love_. There was only one right answer to that question. "No. I didn't want her to care for me before we met again, and I don't want her to now."

Neal let out a deep sigh. "I was afraid – that's why I didn't tell you. I was afraid you'd think I was devious. That I was playing you."

"No – I wouldn't think that."

"Really?" Neal's whole face lit up. "I just felt like such a sleaze. To you, and to Elizabeth."

"So, you haven't told her you know me?"

Neal shook his head. "I haven't seen her since last week – before we'd met again. Telling her today, over the phone, seemed crass. Especially since she was so worried about you."

"Yeah, that's true."

Neal asked him a question out of left field. "By the way, have you gotten any calls from unrecognized numbers this afternoon?"

"No – actually I've had my phone on mute since the fruit was delivered. Let me check." Peter retrieved his phone from the recesses of the couch and wasn't surprised to find a half-dozen calls – three from an unknown number, two from Elizabeth's cell and one from Blake. "Yes, there were a few calls from a 718 number that I don't recognize."

"Elizabeth was afraid that if she called from a number you'd recognize, you wouldn't answer. I suggested she use someone else's phone."

"You know something, you _are_ devious."

"I was trying to help both of you. You need to talk to her, you need to apologize and to make things right. You need to tell her what's going on. She knows you're not well – and I'm guessing that Diana's not saying anything to her."

"No, Diana wouldn't." Suddenly weary, Peter went back to the couch. Lula was quick to join him. "What should I do?"

"Call her, but don't tell her over the phone. Ask her to come here tomorrow and then lay it all out."

"Will you be here?"

Neal shook his head. "I will, if you really feel you need me here, but I don't think that's a good idea. I think that would be unfair to Elizabeth, like I was ambushing her."

Peter thought about it. "You're right. It wouldn't be fair to her. I need to tell her myself, no hiding behind you."

"How about calling me when you're done. I'll come over and make my own apologies. I'm ten minutes away."

Peter agreed to the plan and added, "You know something, Neal? You're a good man. Don't ever think otherwise."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

After feeding her, Neal took Lula for a walk, giving Peter some privacy to call Elizabeth. Before he left, he had told Peter that he was going to be a while. Not only did Lula need exercise and a chance to do her business, but if he was going to spend the night, he'd need a fresh change of clothes and some toiletries. 

The normal ten-minute walk took a little longer, since Lula wanted to sniff every tree and every hydrant and bush and mailbox she passed, as well as the butt of every dog she encountered. _So much for good manners._

But Neal didn't mind. It was one of those perfect October evenings, the sunlight almost gone, but still bright enough to give the sky – at least the little bit he could see at street level – a bit of a glow. 

He was also at peace. The conversation with Peter went so much better than he'd ever hoped it could. Peter actually understood that he'd been caught up by circumstance and bad timing. In retrospect, he was shocked at how much he'd been expecting Peter to get angry and kick him out, to be cruel and cutting.

To behave like he had twenty-five years ago.

But, as he'd said to Diana, they were different people now. Peter had matured emotionally, without a doubt the result of fifteen years of marriage to a wonderful woman. Neal couldn't help but smile at the irony.

He was different, too. Still as impulsive, but much less self-absorbed. Or so he hoped.

After finishing her doggie business, which Neal cleaned up like a good law-abiding citizen, Lula stopped to confer with an Irish Setter's butt, and was rewarded with a growl for her pains. Neal smiled in apology to the Setter's owner and pulled gently on Lula's leash. "Come on, girl. We're almost home." 

Lula, smart girl that she was, gave him a confused look and turned to look back at the way they had come, back towards Peter's apartment. "No, silly. My home." _And hopefully Peter's too, and sooner rather than later._

The doorman at the San Remo smiled and wished him a good evening. Neal took the time to introduce Lula, telling him that she'd be a frequent visitor, and might soon be taking up residence. He also left instructions that Peter should be admitted at any time, without question.

He left her in the living room and rushed up to his bedroom to get what he'd need. It didn't take long. Neal always had an overnight bag packed and ready to go, a decades-old habit from his gambling days. He changed out of his suit into something more casual, but grabbed another suit for tomorrow. Otherwise, Moz would be sure to comment and Neal wasn't ready to explain the situation with Peter yet. 

Moz knew – of course – that he'd had his heart broken and offered up his own brand of healing – excellent weed and even better wine. But Neal had never given Mozzie the specifics, half-afraid that his friend would try to enact some bizarre vengeance on Peter.

Soon enough, he would need to tell Moz, not only did he have put any potential conflict of interest on record, he needed to give his partner the courtesy of telling him that his attention was being drawn elsewhere. That wouldn't be a problem – Moz had done his own disappearing act several times over the last few decades. As long as he knew what to expect, he wouldn't ask questions. Too many questions.

Suit packed and his overnight bag slung over his shoulder, Neal went to fetch Lula. He wasn't at all surprised to find her sleeping on the couch, her head resting on a pillow. He clicked his tongue. "Come on, girl. Time to get back to Peter."

Lula leaped from the couch and to Neal's astonishment, fetched her leash and dropped it at his feet.

"Girl, you really are something of a prodigy."

She panted at him in agreement.

The trip back to Peter's didn't take quite as long. Neal kept a tight hold on the leash, not letting Lula get distracted. But nature called and Neal was forced to wait when she stopped to piddle at the base of a decorative street lamp on Columbus Avenue.

"Neal Caffrey – the very last man in Manhattan I'd expect to find holding a dog leash."

Neal rocked back on his heels. He returned the greeting with no small amount of caution. "Matthew. Didn't know you were still in New York."

"Not still, just back from some extended traveling."

Even illuminated by the unflattering orange glow of a city street light, Matthew Keller looked good – fit and tanned and a lot less petulant than the last time Neal had seen him. "You're back permanently?"

"Nah, just in town for some business."

Neal nodded, really wanting to move on, to get back to Peter. "Good, good."

"You're looking good, Neal."

"Thanks." He tugged on Lula's leash, but she'd planted her butt on the sidewalk and wasn't budging.

"You know, I'm glad I've run into you."

"Oh, why?"

"Wanted to apologize. I behaved badly – which wasn't your fault."

Neal was surprised; the Matthew Keller he knew never apologized for anything, ever. "I wasn't my best with you, either. I think we were both looking for different things."

"Yeah. I wanted a sugar daddy and you wanted … well, I don't know what you wanted, but I wasn't going to be able to provide it."

Neal laughed. Trust Matthew to be unflinchingly honest. "Have you found your sugar daddy?"

"Yeah, I have. We're good together. Vincent's good to me." 

It might have been a trick of the light, but Neal thought he saw some honest emotion in Matthew's eyes.

"You, though – you look happy, actually. Or maybe it's just the dog." Matthew held out a hand and Lula licked it. He chuckled and wiped the slobber off on her head.

"No, I am."

"You've found something?"

"Yeah – someone."

"Good. I know I was such an ass, telling you that you'd end up dying alone because no one wanted to share their life with a very pretty and very empty shell."

"And don't forget, I was a closed-off, emotionally-stunted narcissist."

"Ha! I really went to town on you. But I have a feeling that as much as I'd wanted those words to hurt, they didn't."

"Nope, not at all."

"You had to care to be insulted. And you didn't care, not one bit."

Neal shook his head and smiled. "No, I didn't, and you deserved better than that."

"You're damn right I did." Matthew smiled. "Leaving you was the best decision I ever made."

Neal didn't need to score any points, so he didn't remind Matthew that he'd kicked him out when he'd come crawling back. Lula finally decided that he'd socialized enough and got up. She started tugging him towards Peter's apartment. "Look, I've got to go. Take care of yourself, Matthew."

"You too, Neal. You too." Matthew clapped him on the shoulder and walked away.

Peter was in the kitchen when Neal let himself into the apartment, doing something completely unexpected.

He was cooking. Or trying to. He looked up at Neal with a wry grimace. "I was hungry, believe it or not. But I can't seem to master something as simple as a scrambled egg." He was holding a pan filled with both raw and burned bits of egg, and the smell was revolting.

"Want me to take over?"

"Please."

Neal set the pan to soak, and asked Peter to get another for him. It was a little amusing to watch him look through the cabinets – he might have been living here for almost a year, but it seemed that he'd only ever used the one pan that had probably been left on the stove by the decorators.

"Here you go."

Neal used the last of the eggs and butter and made a mental note to keep Peter's kitchen stocked – at least until he could convince him to move into his place.

The eggs took a few minutes and Neal watched as Peter ate them like he hadn't had a meal in weeks. "Slow down, tiger. You'll make yourself sick."

Peter didn't listen to him and all but licked the plate clean. "Thank you."

Neal waited until they'd cleaned up and restored the kitchen to its former pristine glory before asking Peter if he'd spoken with Elizabeth.

"Yeah, I did. Just for a few."

"What did she say? What did _you_ say?"

"We couldn't really talk – she was working. But she did say that she'd be here tomorrow at four."

"Okay." Neal took a deep breath. "And are we still good with the plan to have me come over after you've made everything right?"

"If I can make things right, yes."

"Thank you. I need the chance to apologize to Elizabeth, too."

"You didn't do anything wrong, Neal. You were her friend. You didn't know who her ex-husband was."

Neal took a deep breath and confessed the last of his sins. "When I spoke to her this afternoon, when she told me that she was very worried about you, I asked her if she still loved you."

Neal could read a bit of anger in Peter's eyes.

"That was a shitty thing to do."

"I know it was."

Peter again stunned him. "But I understand why you asked. I probably would have done the same thing if our positions were reversed."

Neal just nodded.

"Can I ask, what did she say?"

Neal considered the question, and the consequences of breaking El's confidence. Even though he already owed her one apology, he didn't want to add another to the tally. "All I can say is that she cares about you the way you care about her."

Peter let out a breath. "That's good. I still care about El, too. She was my wife, I loved her very much and there will always be a part of me that still does." Peter looked at him. "Does that threaten you?"

Neal didn't even have to think about his answer. "No, not at all. Your marriage to Elizabeth made you a better man. More open, more generous, less judgmental."

"Less of an asshole, you mean."

Neal laughed. "That's exactly right."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Elizabeth approached Peter's apartment building with some trepidation. Wrapped up in a major corporate event, she'd only been able to talk with Peter for two minutes last night – just long enough for him to offer her an invitation to meet here at four PM.

Part of her was still angry at him for the way he'd treated her – proclaiming that they weren't friends, that they meant nothing to each other now, but another part of her wondered if there was something so terribly wrong that he wanted her out of his life, no questions asked.

The more she thought about it, the more horribly plausible that seemed – especially given Diana's radio silence and Peter's request to meet her at his apartment instead of his office and in the middle of the afternoon.

And that made her angrier. They might be divorced, but a judge's decree didn't erase fifteen years of a good life together. He should have told her what was going on.

The doorman cleared her through and Elizabeth continued to fume up to the twenty-first floor. She hadn't visited Peter here and when the elevator opened into a grand and glossy foyer, her first thought was that Peter must hate living here, amongst all the glass and black leather.

Then all thoughts of her ex-husband's decorating vanished when she saw Peter. He looked … awful.

"El?"

"Peter." The awkwardness between them was new and horrible and she didn't know how to deal with it. But she let him take her into the living room.

"Would you like a cup of coffee or tea or something?" At least Peter seemed just as ill at ease.

"No, what I want is to know what's going on."

"Can we sit?"

She followed him over to the couch, sat down, and noticed, of all things, stray dog hairs decorating the leather. "Peter?"

"First, will you please accept my apologies for being so cruel to you?"

El nodded, but said, "Only if you tell me why. You wanted me out of your life for a reason, and looking at you, I can't help but think you are sick and you didn't want me to know."

"I can't fool you, can I? We've known each other too long, too well."

"Peter, please." She reached out and grasped his hand. "Tell me."

"I have cancer."

The words dropped like deadweight in the quiet room.

"No." She shook her head in denial. "No, not you."

"Yes, me." Peter quickly explained what was going on, almost too quickly, too matter-of-factly.

"You had an operation and you didn't tell me? How could you?" 

"El, we're divorced. You wanted a new life; you have ambitions that didn't include taking care of a sick ex-husband."

"No, no. That's not how it works." She felt herself shaking. "You're supposed to tell me these things."

Peter smiled gently. "Maybe, but at the time, it was the right decision to make."

"And cutting me out of your life the other week was right, too?"

"Maybe. I shouldn't have been so awful to you, but we're divorced, hon. That means our lives have to go separate ways. I can't rely on you like I would have before. It wouldn't be right, or fair."

The 'hon' cut like a knife and Elizabeth wasn't willing to give up on her anger yet. "What if I was sick? What if I needed you?"

Peter continued to give her that gentle, understanding smile. "If you needed me, I'd be there for you, immediately and without question. But if you chose not to say anything, I would have to respect that."

That took the wind out of her sails. "Why are you telling me now, though?"

"Diana came to see me."

"Ah. I guess she told you that we'd talked."

Peter nodded.

"She didn't say anything to me – other than giving me a not-too-subtle brush-off."

"It's more than just my illness." Peter got up and paced the room.

Another icy knot of worry formed in her stomach. "Peter?"

"I'm seeing someone."

Elizabeth blinked. "That … was the last thing I expected you to say." She took a deep breath and let the idea that her husband – no, her _ex-husband_ – was romantically involved with someone else settle in her brain. And it felt … right. "That's wonderful – but this must be a very recent development."

"It is, in a way."

"In a way?"

"He's someone I knew a long time ago."

"And you've reconnected? How?"

"Through a whole lot of coincidences. He's Diana's boss and when they needed a new M&A advisor, she recommended me." Peter gave her an odd look, as if he was expecting a specific reaction.

"And you spotted him across a crowded conference room, fell into each other's arms and swore your undying love?" El winced – not only at the bad choice of words, but at her snarky tone.

Peter shook his head. "Not quite. We hadn't parted on the best of terms. I was an asshole to him."

Something in what Peter was saying started to ring bells in her memory, but she couldn't quite make the connection.

"So, he punched you in the face and you apologized, and then fell into each other's arms?"

"No. It turns out that he lives nearby. I went for a walk on Saturday – up by the park. I stopped in front of the San Remo and he was just getting home. He invited me up to his apartment and we talked."

 _The San Remo_. All the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. "You and Neal Caffrey."

Peter nodded.

"That son of a bitch! I poured my heart out to him and he's been playing me." 

"El, El, calm down. He didn't know you were married to me. You never mentioned my name."

She thought back to the conversations she'd had with Neal. At their first meeting, at his apartment. Was it really possible she'd never mentioned Peter's first name? Then she remembered what Neal had told her that night. "You're the one who told him to take a hike, right? You and Neal Caffrey were housemates for three years and you told him that you really weren't friends."

Peter nodded. "I did to you what I'd done to him."

"And he's forgiven you? Just like that?"

"It wasn't just like that, El."

"It couldn't have been too difficult – I saw him a week ago Tuesday, Diana saw you on Wednesday, and you said you ran into him on Saturday afternoon. That was four days ago."

"Neal is a generous soul. Like you."

"Maybe he's playing you? Maybe he's stringing you along and is going to dump you just when it would hurt the most."

"No. If he wanted to do that, he could have destroyed me a long time ago. All he had to do was let the FBI know I'd been in a homosexual relationship. It was 1987 and that would have gotten me booted out of the Academy without question, and would have destroyed any chance I'd have for a career in finance. His feelings for me are honest. He held my head when I was heaving over the toilet – he could have just as easily let me drown in my own vomit."

Elizabeth wasn't so ready to believe Peter.

Peter read the skepticism on her face. "El, hon – he picked your company because he liked the name 'Burke Premier Events'. He had no clue we'd been married."

El sniffed. "He'd said he liked the website."

"I know. He told me that's what he'd said to you."

She felt her anger softening. "I guess he couldn't tell a stranger that he liked the name of my company because it reminded him of his old boyfriend. The one who'd dumped his ass and the one he was still in love with."

"That would be a little extreme."

"You know he still loves you?"

"Yeah, he was pretty clear about that. Something of a miracle." Peter looked at her, his expression almost awed. "I don't know if I deserve it."

"Does he make you happy?"

Peter nodded slowly. "Yeah."

"And do you love him?"

This time, he didn't answer so quickly. 

"Peter?"

He still didn't answer.

"You _don't_ love him?"

Peter smiled. "It's not that, El. I do. I always have. I loved him when I pushed him away and I've never stopped loving him. I just don't want you to think I didn't love you."

El didn't try to stop the twinge of hurt. Not because there was a part of Peter that had belonged to someone else, but that he never shared it with her. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I never wanted you to doubt me, El. I loved you, I never – ever – regretted the choice I made. Only the way I made it."

"Okay, okay." She licked her lips. "I can understand that. It still hurts a little, but it's not like I didn't know you had a past."

"I was a man-whore, and that didn't bother you one bit." Peter smiled.

"No, because that wasn't part of your present."

"And neither was Neal." Peter took her hand. "If we were still married, still in love, and I had met Neal again, I would have done my best to apologize, but as long as my heart belonged to you, it never would have gone beyond that."

El sighed. "I'm being silly, aren't I? I'm jealous over something that never happened when I should be pleased that you've found your own happiness at such a horrible time."

"It's okay – I'd probably feel the same if our positions were reversed."

She had to change the subject. "What happens now, with your treatment?"

"I have another chemo session next Monday, and a two-day break from the radiation. My hair will start falling out soon. I'm going to take disability leave; the last two days have been good, but I'll be back to full-time nausea with the next chemo session."

"Neal will be there, with you?"

"Yes."

"Can I come and keep you company, too?"

"I'd like that. But just warning you, it will be boring. I'll likely be sleeping for much of the time – between the antihistamine and the anti-nausea drugs. I might get cranky and I might get sick. Do you really want to watch me sleep, and then possibly watch me vomit?"

"I don't care." She tried to smile, but the reality of Peter's situation – his health and his new relationship – was overwhelming.

Peter asked, "Can I get a hug?"

Elizabeth flung herself into Peter's arms, holding him as tight as he was holding her. It had been a long time since they'd been this physically close, and it was so different now. Peter was bony and felt so frail, like she could squeeze the life out of him with just a little more effort.

Peter let her go and she pulled away, sad and yet a lot more settled than she'd been in a long time. After the divorce, she'd worked hard to maintain a good relationship with Peter, but there were always undercurrents, guilt, regret, shame. Those were gone, now.

The Peter Burke she was sitting next to was her ex-husband, but he was now truly her friend.

"Will you do a favor for me?"

"If I can."

"Neal wants to talk to you. Will you wait here until he comes over? "

Elizabeth took a deep breath and considered Peter's request. "No, I don't think so."

"He wants to apologize to you."

El nodded slowly. "Yes, he does owe me that, but you can tell him we're good. I just need some time. We can talk over the weekend."

"Okay. Would you mind waiting a moment and come down with me? I'd going to go see him."

"Now? Tonight?"

"He spent the last two nights here, I want to spend the night with him at his place, tonight. Besides, he has my dog. Our dog."

"You have a dog now, too? The both of you, together?"

"Yeah."

Peter left her standing there, bemused at all the changes. He wasn't gone long, just long enough to grab an overnight bag. "You sure you don't want to talk to Neal? You could come with me?"

"No, I don't think it will be such a good idea right now. You and Neal need to focus on yourselves. And you have my blessing – the both of you."

"Thank you."

He waited with her until her Uber arrived and as the car pulled away from the curb, Elizabeth almost regretted not going with Peter.

Almost.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal was grateful that Peter insisted he keep Lula with him today, explaining that the dog would be too much of a distraction from the conversation he needed to have with Elizabeth.

He paced. He stood. He poured a glass of wine and stared at it for an hour.

He sketched. And erased.

He paced some more. 

Lula watched him with worried eyes, and when he sat down, she jumped onto the couch and draped herself over his lap.

Petting her helped, but it was only a band aid on his anxiety. He wasn't worried – okay, all that worried – about Elizabeth. She'd forgive him. It might take time, but she would.

He was worried about Peter and the conversation he was having with Elizabeth. When he'd asked Peter, point blank, if he still loved her, Peter had confessed that he didn't really know. But then as Peter worked through his emotions, he'd realized that he no longer had a romantic attachment to Elizabeth. But that didn't mean that Peter wouldn't turn to her – a safe and familiar harbor – if she offered.

_Stop buying trouble._

But trouble, it seemed, was free today. Neal tried not to imagine all kinds of scenarios where he ended up alone and shattered again.

_But you might very well end up alone. Peter might die._

Lula whimpered and licked at his face, picking up his distress. He wrapped his arms around the dog and tried to find some level of inner peace.

The shrillness of his ringing cellphone made that impossible, and when he saw the name on the display, Neal's hands shook so hard he almost couldn't answer the damn call. 

"Peter?"

_"Hey there."_

"How did it go?"

_"As well as you'd expect. I'm about to turn onto Central Park West, should be there in about ten minutes."_

"Wait – you were going to call and let me know if it was okay to come over and talk with Elizabeth."

 _"She didn't want to see you. She's okay but she wants some time to process everything."_ Peter paused and Neal could hear the clop-clop of a horse and carriage. _"I'll tell you everything when I get there, okay?"_

"Okay. Can't wait to see you."

_"Me, too."_

Neal hung up and took a deep breath. He was relieved, but it was almost too painful to hope. 

A few minutes later, Lula's ears perked up and Neal heard the arriving elevator chime. He got up and checked the video feed from the elevator's security camera. It was Peter.

He also had a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, and although his face wasn't tilted towards the camera, Neal was certain Peter was smiling.

The doors opened and Lula barked once before racing over to Peter. She wagged and whined ecstatically as Peter responded to her greeting. Their eyes met over the back of the wriggling dog and the last of Neal's worries disappeared.

Finally, Lula let up and bounded back into the living room, fully expecting her humans to follow without question. Peter had dropped his bag when Lula launched herself at him, and now he took off his jacket and handed it to Neal, who hung it up.

They still hadn't exchanged a word, and Neal didn't say anything until Peter dropped onto the couch. He could read the other man's exhaustion, but also his happiness.

"So?"

"You were right, I needed to talk to Elizabeth, to tell her the truth. And to apologize for being such a bastard."

"Did she understand?"

Peter nodded. "She's pissed at me for not telling her, but once I explained, she accepted my reasons. Not happily – of course."

Neal let out a breath. "Okay."

"What's going on with you? Why are you so worried?"

Neal felt himself flush. "It's silly, really. Irrational, even."

"Come on, tell me."

"I was afraid you and Elizabeth would get back together. That she'd want to take care of you and you'd want that, too."

"After everything I've told you? I pushed her away just so she wouldn't learn I was sick and insist on doing just that."

"You were married for a long time, you loved her for a long time. You're comfortable together."

"And Elizabeth wanted a divorce because she wanted her freedom. Freedom from that comfort, freedom from me." Peter's words were blunt – a very unvarnished truth. "I didn't want that before we'd met again, and I certainly don't want it now." 

"Because you want me to take care of you?" Neal hated the whiny, needy note in his voice.

"I can take care of myself, Neal."

He was going to argue that point, but that really wasn't the what was at issue. "I'm sorry – I never expected to be this insecure."

"You have every reason to be."

Neal shook his head sharply. "No – this has nothing to do with what happened all of those years ago."

"I know, and that's not what I'm saying." Peter took a deep breath and cupped Neal's cheek. "You weren't shy about saying the words. You put yourself – your heart – on the line almost from the start, and I didn't hesitate to take advantage of that."

Neal objected, "You didn't take advantage, Peter."

"I did, because I didn't tell you the whole truth."

Neal was confused. "What do you mean?"

"Saturday night, I told you I'd broken us apart because I was afraid of falling in love with you. The truth was that I already loved you. I've always loved you and I always will." 

Peter's hand was shaking; Neal could feel the vibrations through his own body. Or maybe that was his own heart pounding. He had hoped, but hearing those words healed the last wounds in his soul.

"I don't know how long I have – "

"None of us do."

Peter ignored that. "And the immediate future is going to be bleak and difficult and unpleasant. I'm not sure you're getting anything worth having."

"However long you have, I want to be with you. Weeks, months, and I hope many years – more years together than we've been apart. But even if … " Neal's breath caught on a sob. "If it's just a few lousy months, I want them all."

Peter's thumb brushed away his tears. "I want them, too. I wish I could be the man I was just a few months ago – strong and healthy, even for just a little while. I wish we could have those memories before the world caves in."

Neal knew what Peter was talking about. "I won't say that doesn't matter, because it does. But there's no reason why we have to hold ourselves apart. I want to sleep with my skin next to yours, I want your arms around me, I want to hold you – when everything is good and when it's all terrible. For however long _we_ have." Neal couldn't stop the tears. He didn't care. Peter was crying, too.

Lula whimpered, joining in their distress, and tried to crawl into their laps. Neal wiped away the tears, and gave her a little affection.

The three of them calmed down and Peter leaned into him. Neal thought the moment was perfect and couldn't imagine being happier.

But he could. Peter was looking at him, love shining out of his eyes as he touched his face again, fingers ghosting over his lips. Then he kissed him.

Peter's lips were familiar from memories resurrected during long and lonely nights. They were gentle, almost tentative, and Neal took such joy in relearning the taste and feel of the man he'd loved for so long. And although it was difficult to miss the toll that illness had taken, there was strength there, too.

Neal threaded his fingers through Peter's hair, loving the rough silk feel of those short strands as he cupped the back of his skull. He knew that this was a sensation he'd need to savor, to remember, to hold fast to in the days and weeks to come.

Peter kissed him and he kissed Peter, and they feasted on each other, trying to sate a hunger that had been banked for too many years.

Neal could have kissed Peter until time ended, but Peter pulled away. He didn't go far, and his lips – a little swollen – were curved into a beautiful smile.

"Do you remember what you said to me, that day in my bedroom. The day you seduced me?"

Neal shook his head; he could barely remember his own name right now.

"You told me that kissing someone for the first time is like turning the corner and walking into paradise. Like finding something unexpected and realizing that it's exactly what you needed in your life."

Neal could hear his twenty-something self saying just that. 

"You weren't quite right, though."

"Oh?"

"Kissing someone you love is like finding paradise. No, _it is_ paradise."

"Yes, it absolutely is. I love you, Peter Burke." 

"And I love you, Neal Caffrey, and I will, forever. However long that forever is."

__

FIN


End file.
